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THE JAZZ
REVIEW
CD
The Style of
John Coltrane
Part II
Don Redman: Jazz
Composer-Arranger
Wayne Shorter
Muddy Waters
Barney Kessel
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LETTERS
APPEAL
Trumpeter Punch Miller is very ill, broke,
and unable to play in New Orleans. He
and his niece are being evicted from
her house, and he is inelligible for welfare because he doesn't have resident
status in Louisiana.
Bill Russell (600 Chartres St., New
Orleans, La.) has set up a fund to help
him.
Punch is a fine person and doesn't deserve the rotten breaks life has tossed
at him.
Tony Standish
London, England
DEFENSE
Concerning your reference to Ralph
Gleason's "slashing review" of THE JAZZ
STORY I should greatly appreciate it if
you corrected the erroneous impression
Mr. Gleason gave his readers (and now
yours) that my reason for narrating
Leonard Feather's script represented
"one of the most horrendous efforts to
grab a buck that an industry where
profit is the main motive has ever produced."
Somewhat apologetically I direct your
attention to the fact that my income
from television is (how do I say this
without seeming gauche?) well, ridiculously high. To date I recall receiving
no royalties whatever from THE JAZZ
STORY album, and when I do they will,
as anyone familiar with the record business should know, either be very small
or else materially non-existent because
of the custom whereby the artist-paysfor-the-date.
Mr. Gleason's usual sensitivity and intelligence would seem to have deserted
him in this particular instance. He
would have been much wiser to simply
criticize the album itself (which was by
no means perfect) and not stoop to
imputing base motives to the party narrating it.
Steve Allen
Hollywood
ALL JAZZ RADIO
I have some comment about these
"all-jazz" radio stations. These stations
are rapidly becoming mere purveyors of
background music, playing only the
most recent records, making sure that
there is a minimum of music that
would catch the attention of the aver-
age listener. In all the hours I've listened to WHAT-FM in Philadelphia, I've
heard very little of the jazz recorded
before the days of the 15-20,000 cycles
hi-fi, in proportion to the amount of
mass-produced trivia which most musicians are indulging in today. Unlike
as in other classical forms, you can't rerecord pieces in high-fidelity, and have
to accept the fact that an important
part of our jazz heritage was produced
before good recording techniques were
developed. These stations (partly, I
suppose, because their long schedules
make it hard for the programmers to
listen to the records and make up creative programs) are bringing up the
public to a jazz that does without
Parker, Young, most of Ellington, Bessie
Smith, Tatum, and many others who
recorded little, if anything in good
sound. I personally think that 25 minutes a week on WQXR with John Wilson
are more valuable than 12 hours a day
on ten all-jazz stations across the country, at least in this important aspect.
Roland Hirsch
Georges Mills, N.H.
OUR SEVEREST FRIEND
I've been reading this magazine of
yours since the first issue, mainly because there's nothing else. It is unfortunate, though, that the stickum you
use to hang the parts together must be
this bright and wearying snobbery, so
unsupportable in view of your failings.
I was shocked at Mr. Keepnews' attack
on John Holmes' book, The Horn, and
this shock reverberates a bit more
somehow by virtue of your cozy and
rather nauseating little gossip column
by Mr. Hentoff (worth a letter in itself),
who presumes to discuss a reform of
the language of jazz, himself employing
a syntax and vocabulary ("transocciate")
so tasteless as to be a kind of satire on
the style which grows out of them.
When Nat gets around to straightening
out (after a course in Freshman Rhetoric), I think that before enlightening
the world of jazz criticism at large, he
might first pass the word to his own
staff, particularly to Miss Clar, a Critic
so completely mastered by the academic style that she is able to write
dully about the most forthright and
vigorous music.
I think perhaps the whole staff should
get together and turn each other's malevolent insecurity on the monthly offerings, so as to eliminate such things as
these:
"There's Bird in spots in the timbre of
his tone." (Mr. Farmer)
"If it (Mr. Russo's critical position)
needs a name, it can be called a relational-absolute view." (Mr. Russo)
" . . . his (Webster's) sonority alone is
music to read F. Scott Fitzgerald by."
(Mr. Coulter not only provides us with
this fine occasion for embarrassed
laughter, but later feels obliged to
display his irrelevant and incomplete
knowledge of Hopkins, Pope, and Roy
Harris in a discussion of how "Lulled
by soft zephyrs through the broken
pane" needs to be declaimed. One
might forgive a declamatory interpretation of this line by one of the younger
primitive poets, but never a critic.)
And finally, Miss Clar's well nigh incomparable explanation of swing, (before which she generously informs us
that jazz and Gospel do swing). "This
movement is achieved in two ways: first,
by retarded entries and delayed attacks
of notes (in other words, the performer
plays a shade behind the strict metronomic beat of the music so that the
beat becomes an exterior force which
pulls the music after it); second, by the
simultaneous presence of tension and
relaxation in the player—that is, the
player makes an effort to relax in order
to maintain the loose flow of the rhythm,
yet at the same time he is on edge in
order to avoid a structural disintegration of the rhythmic and melodic
phrases (which would occur were he to
play too far behind the beat or were he
to anticipate it.)" I think this not only
slovenly and unclear, but misleading,
the reader who needs to be told that
Gospel swings may naively suppose that
anticipation of the beat always destroys swing, which is absurd; or that
there is a given place behind the beat
where the notes must be attacked—an
equally absurd idea, held by many
young saxophone players I suspect. The
approach to and holding back from the
beat (acceleration and retardation) form
flexible patterns, and it is in the sophistication of these patterns, and their relation to melody, that swing exists.
I am sure you yourselves can supply
more criticism of this kind; so please
stop coming on with all this jive like
you know everything. People who are
hip knew about Monk, Miles, Philly Joe
and the Ward Singers long before you
started waving the flag. And it's de
rigeur these days to stroke the chin
thoughtfully while listening to James
P. and Jelly—you didn't invent that
either. In fact, there's really not a great
deal in your little Magazine that hasn't
been said before, and frequently more
clearly, with less pretense. You ought
to think about these things, and stop
paying attention to these fan letters
from the innocents.
This having been stated, I must now
admit that The Jazz Review does have
more spirit, knowledge and precision
than any other magazine in the (American) field. The interviews of older jazzmen are interesting and otherwise unavailable documents. Occasional articles by Mr. Williams are among the
best jazz criticism (no caps) I have ever
read, and Wellstood's review of the
Monk's Music transcriptions was beyond
any disparagement I can form. But bear
in mind that Mr. Holmes was able, at
times, to write very poetically, about
some things in the world of jazz that
nobody else has yet got close to, including yourselves.
Frederick Conn
Brooklyn N.Y.
The Jazz Review—with this issue—
has been in existence for a year. We are
grateful to our readers—and to the
advertisers—for their support. We are
neither prosperous nor ingenuous enough
to be in the least complacent about
what we have accomplished so far. But
we have tried to make each issue better
than the last, and although we have not
always succeeded, that remains our goal.
We owe particular thanks to our contributors throughout the world. They have
taken so much time and care with their
work, we know, because they too believe
that jazz and the men who create it are
important enough to be treated with
time and care. And hardest of all,
with real understanding.
In the coming years, we hope to grow in
understanding—and in scope.
Nat Hentoff
Martin Williams
Hsio Wen Shin
Nat Hentoff
Martin Williams
Contributing Editor: Gunther Schuller
Hsio Wen Shih
Publisher:
Bob Cato
Art Director:
Hank Leonardo
Advertising Manager:
Margot Hentoff
Editorial Assistant:
Co-editors:
VOLUME 2 NUMBER 10 NOVEMBER 1959
6
\
Don Redman, Composer-Arranger
as told to Frank Driggs
13 The Style of John Coltrane, Part 2
by Zita Carno
18 Muddy Waters
by Alexis Korner
22 Introducing Wayne Shorter
by Le Roi Jones
25 The Blues
26 Creole Echoes, Part 2
by Ernest Borneman
RECORD REVIEWS
28
31
32
32
33
34
34
35
36
36
37
38
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
44
44
45
46
48
Israel Young and Leonard Feldman were
I among the founders of the Jazz Review.
The Jazz Review is published monthly by
[ The Jazz Review Inc., Village Station, Box
128, New York 14, N. Y. Entire contents copyright 1959 by The Jazz Review Inc.
Price per copy 50c. One year's subscription
$5.00. Two year's subscription $9.00.
Unsolicited manuscripts and illustrations
should be accompanied by a stamped, selfaddressed envelope. Reasonable care will be
taken with all manuscripts and illustrations,
but the Jazz Review can take no responsibility for unsolicited material.
NEW CONTRIBUTORS
Don Heckman studied alto with Lee
Konitz and composition with the Hungarian composer Ernst Von Dohnanyi.
He now lives in New York, and divides
his time between composing and writing.
Alexis Korner is a singer and guitarist
well-known in London folk-music circles.
Harvey Pekar is nineteen, and is a
sophomore at Western Reserve University. He says that he has spent a lot of
time hanging around a delicatessen,
but, although sympathetic, would not
call himself a beatnik.
Dizzy Gillespie by Max Harrison
Cannonball Adderley by Zita Carno
Ruby Braff by Art Farmer
Jonh Benson Brooks by Don Heckman
Ray Brown by Bill Crow
Kenny Burrell by H. A. Woodfin
Harry Edison by Maitland Edey
Duke Ellington by Max Harrison
Benny Golson by Art Farmer
Billie Holiday by Maitland Edey
The Mastersounds by Maitland Edey
Stuff Smith by Maitland Edey
Jimmy and Mama Yancey by Charles Payne Rogers
Brandeis Jazz Concert by Don Heckman
Birdland by Mimi Clar
Jazz Soul of Porgy and Bess by Don Heckman
Downbeat Concert by H. A. Woodfin
Seven Ages of Jazz by Martin Williams
Rockin' Together by Glen Coulter
Primitive Piano and the Yanceys by Guy Waterman
Brownie McGhee and Blues in the Mississippi Night by Le Roi Jones
Elizabeth Cotten by Mimi Clar
The Dixie Hummingbirds by Mimi Clar
Tambourines to Glory by J. S. Shipman
MOVIE REVIEW
50
Porgy and Bess by Le Roi Jones
BOOK REVIEWS
52 Whitney Ballietfs THE SOUND OF SURPRISE by Max Harrison
53 Leonard Feather's JAZZ by Bill Crow
54 Down Beat Jazz Record Reviews, Vol. 3 by Max Harrison
55 Jazz in Print by Nat Hentoff
59 Jazz Dance/Mambo Dance by Roger Pryor Dodge
64 Jazz Books in America 1935-55 by Sheldon Meyer
66 Reconsiderations/Fats Navarro by Harvey Pekar
HON
KBIIittAN
JAZZ COMPOSER-ARRANGER
It has been close to twenty years since anyone has
really paid much attention to the pre-modern composer and arranger. We live in the era of George
Russell, Manny Albam and Gil Evans. It would seem
from the recordings of the past decade that some of
our greatest and most original minds have been all
but forgotten: Benny Carter, Don Redman, Jesse
Stone, Eddie Wilcox, Eddie Durham, and even later
men like Walter Gil Fuller. For more than a decade,
and for some much more, none of these men has
been called upon by either major or minor firms for
the quality and originality in composition and arrangement that is so necessary to sustain jazz.
While the history books, and they are in many ways
inadequate, have noted most of their contributions,
they have done so without adequate recognition of
their true significance. A series of articles may result from further research, but it is fitting to begin
with the first and one of the greatest of all jazz composers-arrangers.- Don Redman.
There may be a younger reader who will say, "Now,
who is Don Redman?" But it is not only to him that
this biography is addressed: there are many older
people, followers and professionals in the field, who
seem to have forgotten about Redman's talents.
Don Redman introduced arranged jazz in New York
while with the Billy Paige band from Pittsburgh in
1922 and went on from there to be the jazz arranger
in Fletcher Henderson's first great band, between
1924 and 1927. During those years he wrote arrangements for the Henderson library that pioneered
many of the standard techniques of arrangers all
during the swing era of the middle and later 'thirties.
In 1927 he took an average Midwestern band,
McKinney's Cotton Pickers, with vague qualities of
musicianship and showmanship and little individuality, and made it one of the four top jazz orchestras for the duration of his four years stay, in
competition with Fletcher Henderson's, Duke Ellington's and Alphonso Trent's. He scored some exceptional small group sides for Louis Armstrong during
the same period and arranged for Paul Whiteman
and Ben Pollack's bands as well.
He formed his own orchestra late in 1931 and it
was the equal in musicianship, inspiration and verve
of any playing over the next several years. A series
of wonderful recordings resulted. By 1940 he
dropped his band and turned almost entirely to
writing for others, turning out some notable hits,
among them Deep Purple for Jimmy Dorsey, Five
O'clock Whistle for Count Basie, and Things Ain't
What They Used To Be for Cootie Williams. He was
the first to take a big band overseas on a continental
tour after World War II in 1946-47 to tremendous
acclaim and upon his return continued free-lance
commercial arranging. After several years he teamed
with Pearl Bailey, leading a band accompanying her
and writing her arrangements. Today he's still freelancing for people like Sugar Ray Robinson, for CBS
and for many transcription and record firms and still
working with Pearl.
He's always done such a professional job that hardly
anyone has ever stopped to think that perhaps he
has yet to realize his full potential in jazz. It would
be a marvelous thing should one of the major recording firms give him the freedom they have extended to the younger arrangers and composers over
the past decade.
A most welcome addition to the jazz library would
be an Ip from Victor and one from Columbia who
hold the bulk of Don's best orchestral work. Victor
has some twenty good sides of the 1938 through
1940 period, and Columbia has an even better and
wider range of material from 1932 through 1937 on
Brunswick, Columbia, Perfect and Vocalion dates.
Only Decca in the Brunswick "Harlem Jazz" set (no
longer in print) has ever issued anything by Redman;
that was the superior Chant of the Weed and Shakin'
the African from late 1931, just as the band was
organizing. Victor's last Cotton Pickers collection
was ten-inch LPT 24.
Regardless of reissue, let's hope that Don Redman
is plucked out of the bland commercial atmosphere
that he has been a part of for such a long time and
given an Ip without strings attached so that he can
give us some more of the jazz that he still has up
his sleeve.
FRANK DRIGGS
What follows is Don Redman's story, told in his own
words.
I was a child prodigy you know. From the age of
three I was performing in public. I didn't have much
of any kind of instruction, just started in playing.
By the time I was fourteen I was playing music regularly. In grade school I had charge of the number
three band. They had several different bands, all
graded according to their ability. After a while i
moved up to be in charge of the number two band,
but I never did get to the number one spot, although
at that time I was playing all the instruments, especially cornet. I started working around town (Piedmont, Wesi Virginia) with a bunch of local musicians, none of whom ever left town.
Actually, I began writing arrangements for some of
the touring road shows that came to town, when I
was in my teens. Our band was only seven pieces
and we'd back up the acts, and occasionally I'd do
an original tune. Being a country boy I didn't know
much about copyrighting songs and lost Prohibition
Blues that way. It was a pretty big hit later on.
After I finished high school I went to Storer College
in Harper's Ferry and majored in music, graduating
in three years. Then I joined Billy Paige's Broadway
Syncopators from Pittsburgh and spent the next
year or two with them. They were very popular
around Pittsburgh in the early twenties, and were
considered, along with Lois Deppe's band, as the
top band from that part of the country. Earl Hines
came to town about the same time I did, and he was
great even then. He joined Deppe's band.
Jim Fellman was our pianist and he was great. Earl
got something from him then. Fellman couldn't read
and he died by the time Billy Paige left Pittsburgh,
so we sent to Boston to get Roy Cheeks. He's still
around New York today, playing mostly exclusive
supper clubs and that sort of thing, because he had
a fair voice, just enough to get by with as an entertainer.
picked us up and brought us to New York under
his banner. We were the first to play arrangements
in New York and did very well for a while, but we
broke up pretty quickly.
I wasn't in town but a few days after that when I got
a phone call to come and make a record date for
Emerson. I went down to the studio and found
Fletcher Henderson on the date. There was a band
there, but it wasn't his band. He didn't have a band
then, but was kind of a house pianist for Emerson
and he worked behind some of the singers like Edith
Wilson. On this date, Florence Mills was singing.
Fletcher had an in with W. C. Handy who knew him
from the South. Handy had a publishing company,
Handy and Pace, and also Black Swan records, and
Fletcher was house man for them also.
On the Florence Mills date the band consisted of
Howard Scott and Elmer Chambers on trumpets,
George Brashear on trombone, Fletcher, Charlie
Dixon on banjo, and myself. I even played piano on
some of them, and there were no drums, because
they hadnt learned how to record them. I remember
accompanying Baby Benbow on piano on one session. She was pretty popular at that time.
By the time we graduated to Columbia we added a
man here and there. Coleman Hawkins came in
from Mamie Smith's band, and Billy Fowler came in
on baritone. Joe Smith made some of the early dates
too, before he left and went out of town.
Columbia's studios were on Columbus Circle where
the Coliseum building is .now. On one date we were
to make some instrumentals for them with the band,
even though it still didn't belong to anyone. After
we recorded that day, someone told us about an
offer for an audition at the Nora Bayes Theatre
(Little Theatre) on 44th Street in Shubert Alley. We
didn't want to go because we didn't have any arrangements or any repertoire. The guy who told us
about the job said we ought to use the same tunes
Bart Howard out of Toledo, was another fine pianist
we recorded that day. We didn't even have all the
around Pittsburgh then, and so was "Toodle-oo"
stuff with us, just some of the blues things we made
Johnson, who played in all the sporting houses. He
with the singer. I remember we made the Dicty
was a little hunch-backed guy, about the same size as
Blues that day, and went down and auditioned with
Chick Webb, but he could really play in that style.
that stuff and got the job, which was for the Club
Deppe's band got by because of Earl and himself,
Alabam'. Thas was the Cotton Club of that era.
although both Joe Smith and his brother Russell,
When we went into the Club we added Kaiser Marwere with him for a while. Deppe was a terrific
shall on drums, Ralph Escudero on tuba, Allie Ross,
singer, and did some numbers with McKinney later
a violinist, as front man, and Heard (I forget his first
on, when I was there; I remember Ben Bernie's
name), a trombonist and a nice arranger. We detheme It's a Lonesome Old Town. He's out in Chicago
cided to make Fletcher the leader because he was a
now, doing mostly church work, but his voice is
college graduate and presented a nice appearance.
badly cracked. He was very big in show business
We became popular right away and used to broadback then, doing some of the "Great Day" shows
cast over WHN all the time. Edith Wilson was on the
and introducing Without a Song.
bill with us and she wanted Hawk to come out on
Our band became so popular that Paul Specht
stage and play the blues behind her. He didn't mind,
but he wanted to get paid for it. George White was
the manager of the club and he told Fletcher to fire
Hawk. Since we were doing terrific business and had
gotten other offers from Roseland and other places,
we decided we'd give notice to a man if Hawk was
fired. We moved over to Roseland and from there on
we were the top band in New York. No one rivalled
us then.
When I was in Pittsburgh I'd heard a lot about Louis
Armstrong, and Fletcher wanted to get another good
man in the band, so we got him away from Joe Oliver
in 1924. Kaiser Marshall had a car and brought us
downtown to meet Louis. He was big and fat, and
wore high top shoes with hooks in them, and long underwear down to his socks. When I got a load of that,
I said to myself, who in the hell is this guy? It can't
be Louis Armstrong. But when he got on the bandstand it was a different story. Joe Oliver sent along
his book of tunes when Louis joined the band, and
right away I picked out Dippermouth Blues as a
framework for Louis. We called it Sugarfoot Stomp
and it used to go over very big. In fact, Louis, his
style, and his feeling, changed our whole idea about
the band musically.
We used to have battles of music with Sam Lanin
all the time. He was at one end of the hall and we
were at the other, and in the middle was the arrangers' table. All the time both bands were there, the
arrangers' table used to be full. We were always
making up new arrangements trying to top theirs.
They had Red Nichols, Miff Mole and Vic Berton in
their band. We used to tear off the top of any new
arrangement and put a fake title on it to throw them
off . . . we'd be trying to see what the other was
playing. They had one arrangement that really used
to break up the crowds, and Fletcher sent his men
all over town trying to get copies. They called it
Hole in the Wall and we didn't find out for a month
that it was really Milenburg Joys that they were playing. We had the best musicians in town playing with
us then.
We needed another reedman and I wanted to get
Vance Dixon in the band, but he didn't want to leave
Virginia, so I sent for Milt Senior who was with the
Cotton Pickers. When he wouldn't come to New York,
Louis suggested we get Buster Bailey out of King
Oliver's band. He joined us the night he hit towrr;
and we featured him on numbers like Dizzy Fingers,
Tiger Rag and he broke up the place. Jimmy Dorsey
was there that night and he came every night after
that.
In the three years I was with Fletcher, the only other
one to make any arrangements was Coleman Haw-
kins, and he'd bring in about two or three a year,
because he was lazy. He did a terrific job on Singin'
in the Rain. The only other arranger was Ken Macomber and he'd do the new hits from the Broadway
shows which we had to do to satisfy the customers.
After I left Fletcher started writing, and Charlie
Dixon did some too.
I wasn't getting but $25.00 an arrangement in those
days, until Paul Whiteman gave me a blanket order
for twenty arrangements at $100.00 a piece, and
paid me the $2000.00 right then and there. I was
out of this world then, because the usual $25.00
was all anyone was getting. I did Whiteman Stomp
for both him and Fletcher, as well as several others
he recorded. Fats Waller sold Fletcher nine arrangements including Henderson Stomp for a dozen
hamburgers.
Louis became pretty dissatisfied because he got all
the hard work, all the high stuff, and Joe Smith was
the pet of both Fletcher and his wife. When he left
we got Tommy Ladnier. He was a terrific soloist, but
he couldn't read too well, and he had to go out and
learn his parts. He was especially good on the lowdown blues, I thought even better than Louis.
Fletcher's wife had been married to Russell Smith,
and he taught her to play trumpet. He had the beautiful tone and was the first chair man. She used to
play just like him, and whenever he was out for
some reason, she used to do the first chair parts,
and she did them well, too. She was in back of
Fletcher in practically everything he ever did.
Around New York there were many good musicians
then. When I first came to town, Johnny Dunn was
the trumpet player. He was a terrific salesman for
himself and he was the first one I knew to use any
kind of mute. He'd set himself up in a show with
just himself and dancers. His valet would come followed by all sorts of trunks, and I used to wonder
if they were all for one man. The valet would set
them up against the wall, and in them would be
all kinds of pots and pans, flowerpots, cans, anything to get a different sound out of his horn. I think
he was an influence on Duke because he really did
get a lot of sounds out of his horn. In those days he
used to be with pit bands, and nobody was featured
from a pit band, but him. I don't think he was much
of a musician technically. He later went overseas
with Florence Mills and the "Blackbirds."
There was another guy around town called Brassfield who was a sensational sax player then. He
couldn't read a thing, nothing. Nobody else could
play his horn, and his mouthpiece would be on the
horn so that it would be a half note out of tune.
When he played it, it would be in tune. Everybody
used to marvel at him.
June Clark and Jimmy Harrison used to have a band
uptown at Connor's on 135th Street, and all of us
used to practically live in there. June was very good,
but he couldn't read. They used to play some great
jazz together. When Jimmy was in Fletcher's band
later on, he was the best around.
Benny Carter's cousin, Cuban Bennett was another
terrific trumpet player, and all he needed was a
little more experience to really make it.
In those days nobody had the knack of picking out
talent better than Chick Webb. He picked Johnny
Hodges, Bobby Stark, John Trueheart, Don Kirkpatrick and of course, Ella, and many others.
I had gotten an offer from Bill McKinney to run his
band for him, but since I was getting pretty good
money from Fletcher and was well regarded, I decided not to take another offer until it was better
than what I was getting then. We used to work the
Graystone Ballroom in Detroit all the time, while
McKinney was at the Arcadia and he would come
over and tell me when he got in a position to make
me the kind of offer I wanted, would I take the job?
I told him I would.
When I joined the Cotton Pickers they were pretty
much of a novelty outfit of around ten pieces. John
Nesbitt, an exceptional trumpet player was doing
all their arranging, and he knew his music, but he
was copying everybody else's records. They had
been known as the Synco Septette for years, ever
since they built their reputation at the Green Mill
in Toledo. I told Nesbitt to stop copying others work
because he had enough ability to do his own stuff,
and he eventually did turn out some fine things for
the Cotton Pickers.
He loved Bix and used to play a lot like him in his
own way. I'm thinking of doing one of his things this
year, Will You Won't You Be My Baby?
The Cotton Pickers wasn't a solo band, but a unit.
I was trying to get a sound and a style a little different than the other bands. Out in Detroit we really
had that town sewed up and the people used to be
wild over our stuff. The band became so popular at
the Graystone that Jean Goldkette (who owned the
Graystone and backed the band) wouldn't let me
take all the men to New York with me when we got
the offer from Victor to record. That's one of the
reasons why there were so many different guys on
those sessions.
While I was directing the Cotton Pickers we used
to have Mondays off and I'd go to Chicago for some
sessions with Louis Armstrong. He was featured with
Carroll Dickerson's band at the Savoy Ballroom, and
took a small group from the band to record for Okeh.
At the same time I was doing some arranging on the
side for Ben Pollack's great band with Benny Goodman and Jimmy McPartland.
The Cotton Pickers were so popular that we battled
bands all over the country. I first met Count Basie
when we went to Kansas City and battled Bennie
Moten at 15th and Paseo. That's when I first heard
Mot en Swing, which is nothing but the "go" chorus
from You're Driving Me Crazy. They also used to do a
terrific job on I Want a Little Girl and I'm surprised
they never recorded i i They really had a fine band
and they used to give us a lot of trouble.
We went to Hollywood to play Sebastian's Cotton
Club after Louis in 1930. The first week there I
thought we were dead ducks, and nobody could
figure out why. We didn't begin to click until Sunday
night when all the bands were off and the hotels
were closed. The musicians packed the joint and
really put us over. They told us that nobody had
heard a band playing arrangements up until that
time, and after that it was smooth sailing. We played
to a packed house for seven weeks.
There had been a lot of dissension building up in
the band, not among the musicians, but with management, which was McKinney and Charlie Horvath,
the manager of the Graystone. The boys wanted a
raise, because their name was a big attraction then,
but they were turned down. On that trip to the coast
the management brought the announcer from Detroit and his whole family and a couple of other guys
and their families along on vacation paid for with
Cotton Pickers' money. The guys in the band couldn't
get a five dollar raise! That was it.
When we got back to Detroit, I got word that Tommy
Rockwell and Sam Smith wanted me to take a band
into Connie's Inn in New York. McKinney knew I was
getting ready to leave and that I wanted to take
some of his men with me. He told me I could take
anyone I wanted except Cuba Austin and Billy Taylor
the bass player. I picked Prince Robinson, Ed Cuffee,
Ed Inge and Buddy Lee. They gave Cuffee and Prince
a raise so they stayed on. I heard that Horace Henderson had a school band at Wilberforce that was
very good but out of work, so I got to them and took
six men plus Horace and got the band together.
I barely had the band organized when Irving Mills
had gotten me a recording contract with Brunswick,
frills and Horvath were set to manage the band, but
they were cut out when Rockwell took over. We rehearsed for two weeks and I didn't even have my
trombone section set when we cut the first sides.
Red Allen had to fill in for Sidney DeParis, because
he was kind of temperamental and didn't show up
for the date. Leonard Davis and Shirley Clay were
with the band then, and so was Bennie Morton. Fred
Courtesy Andy Kirk
McKinney's Cotton Pickers
Detroit/1928.
Left to right:
J. Hoxley, alto/Todd Rhodes, piano/
Langston Curl, trumpet/Cuba Austin, drums,
Prince Robinson, tenor/Ralph Escudero, tuba/
Dave Wilborn, banjo and vocals/Claude Jones, trombone/
George 'FatHead' Thomas, alto and vocals/
John Nesbitt, trumpet and arranger/
Don Redman, alto, clarinet, vocals, and
arranger.
Robinson was also in the band but he quit after a
while because he wasn't getting enough solo work.
I thought Bennie was the best around in those days
anyway.
We needed a singer and I was told to go around to
the Rhythm Club because there were two guys there
who were singing great. They turned out to be Harlan Lattimore and Orlando Robeson. I preferred
Harlan because he had a deeper voice and was so
handsome, and he was a fine performer. His idol
was Bing Crosby and he used to sing like him. When
Crosby heard him the first time, he changed his way
of singing so that it would be closer to Harlan's.
Claude Hopkins got Orlando and he was a big hit
with him during the thirties.
Our records started doing very well, and I was doing
a lot of writing, things like Cherry, How'm I Doin'
and numbers like that. I never liked How'm I Doin'
until I heard one of the singers in the show at Connie's Inn put it over big. Then the Mills Brothers
recorded it and it sold very well. We were in Connie's
Inn regularly for three or four years during the early
thirties, and in 1932 were sponsored by Chipso in
a package with the Mills Brothers. We were really
hot then. We were on the air three and four times
a week and the only time we went out was during
the summer for a couple of months.
I'll never forget the night the Lindbergh baby was
kidnapped. We were on the air from Connie's all
night long, in between news flashes, until nine the
next morning. We were really swinging. It's too bad
someone couldn't have taken that down that night.
Connie kept bringing us hot coffee and food and the
place was jumping.
During those same years we made a short film for
Warner Brothers with a racing background. It was
called Sweepstakes and it won some kind of an
award I believe.
We did a lot of travelling on the road and were
almost always playing for white dances during the
early years, and were considered a very commercial
property then. We had a terrific band but I wasn't
able to do the kind of jazz things I might have in
the places we were playing. This was true even on
the road. I did get one of my best men while we
were on the road, however, after many other leaders
had tried for years.
Down in St. Louis there was a band called Johnson's Crackerjacks that really used to make us work
every time we hit town. They had a pretty good
outfit, but one man was really exceptional. That
was Harold "Shorty" Baker. Duke, Fletcher, Andy
Kirk and others had been trying to get him for
years, but no one had been able to turn the trick,
because of his older brother Winfield, who was a
pretty poor trombone man. He told all the leaders
if you wanted Harold you had to take him too, and
nobody wanted that. One night he got pretty high
and I got him outside after the dance and made him
the offer, which he accepted. Some of the other
guys who knew him said he'd never be there, but
he was in time for the bus to leave the next morning
and without his brother. He stayed with me until I
reorganized the band in 1938.
Around 1937 we went under the Mills banner, although they never did much for us as far as records
went. We started working the Savoy quite a bit
around that time, but I was getting tired of the road.
The excitement, the bright lights, the star billing,
and all that I'd had, and I said, give me some money
now. Actually I always liked to write, and liked that
part of the business best anyhow. I wasn't even playing too much myself then, and I never did go too
much for Don Redman's playing. I could play parts,
pretty things, arrangements, but there were guys
like Benny Carter around, and I never fooled myself
thinking I could play jazz like they could.
I still had offers from many sources to take over
bands and to organize new bands, but I wanted to
concentrate on writing. In fact I turned down all
kinds of offers. All the agencies would call and want
me to go out on the road for them. They offered
me very good money, but I didn't have anything
ready, no repertoire, nothing.
I did go out a couple of times when Jay McShann
came to town in 1942 and found the going tough
after a while. They were getting ready to go back
to Kansas City. I'd gotten an offer from the American
Legion in Trenton for a two week stand which I had
to turn down, until my manager told me about
McShann's band being around and struggling. He
said they were organized and a pretty good outfit.
I took them out under my name and the first night
on the job I told Jay to set up and play his own
music, just like it was his own gig, and I'd just
stand up in front of the band and direct and work
with the people. I didn't pay them too much attention the first night, but on the following night
they played an up-tempo arrangement of The
Whistler and his Dog and Charlie Parker took four
choruses. That was it, I was sold. I told him to stay
in New York even if the band did go back home,
and he said he'd be glad to if I could find him a
job. I told him to go into any of the joints and start
playing his horn and he'd get all the jobs he wanted.
He did stay when the band went west again, but he
would have made it anyway, with his unusual talent.
Later on I took McShann's band out for another
month, this time to the Tic Toe in Boston. After
that I kept pretty close to my writing, and sold
arrangements to all the bands then.
I did take a band out again in 1943 and we went
in the Cafe Zanzibar on Broadway and recorded a
couple of sides for V-Disc, Redman Blues, Pistol
Packin' Mama and things like that.
After the war I was the first leader to take a band
overseas and we did terrific business all over Europe. We were supposed to have gone over before
the war, but things prevented that, and the same
agency arranged this tour. I took Tyree Glenn,
Peanuts Holland, Don Byas, Billy Taylor and a lot of
other fine musicians, and we recorded quite a lot
while we were over there, both with the big band
and with small groups. That was in 1946 and 1947.
I've been freelancing ever since, then, with CBS
and for many of the recording firms, and in the fifties
I tied up with Pearl Bailey, and have been making
all her arrangements and directing her orchestra
ever since.
Most of the recordings I've made in the past year
or so have been commercial things, for outfits like
Sesac and groups like that. They all liked what I did
for them, and I managed to get Hawk, Charlie
Shavers and guys like that in on the sessions.
I haven't signed with anyone yet, because I want a
free hand in composing and arranging, and most of
the companies all have their things they want you
to do. There's so much talent in town today that
anyone ought to be able to make good records, but
not too much of what's on the market is good.
Some of the younger musicians who are being recorded so much today just don't have the experience
behind them to make good records. Look at a guy
as great as Hawk is, he didn't really hit his stride
until he was ready to go overseas in the middle
thirties, and by that time he'd already been in the
business for close to ten years.
I'm planning to do some remakes of some of the
best things I did, like Cherry, Milenburg Joys, Try
Getting a Good Night's Sleep and things like that.
I think there's a market for them, and the public
is going to want the big bands back pretty soon
anyway.
THE
STYLE
OF
JOHN
COLTRANE
ZITA CARNO
PART 2
There are a number of devices which Coltrane employs in building a solo which are by no means
obvious, and which would take repeated hearings
to spot. But once you know what they are, you will
be able to understand more fully just how he goes
about it.
One of them—and it shows up at once on Blue Train
—is his little trick of building up on a single note
(as in this case) or a short phrase, then taking off
from there. It is personal with him, like so many of
the things he does.
Another is his wonderful use of sequences—which I
mentioned earlier in the end of his solo on Bass
Blues wherein he employs one of his pet phrases
this way. Another excellent illustration is his tag on
Locomotion: (Example 6)
Coltrane has a way of starting his solos in the least
expected places. What is more, he never does anything exactly the same way twice. He also has a
peculiarly individual way of altering the phrasing,
unlike anything ever heard before. It is almost impossible to describe it, but if you look back at Example lb, in part one of this article, you will see
something of it. It involves an extremely subtle shifting of accentuation (you'll see this also in Examples
2b, 4 and 5, as well as in the solo on Blue Train),
which results in previous often a-rhythmic phrasing
that will throw the unwary listener off the track.
At this point I am going to do what I said I'd do
earlier—quote Coltrane's complete recorded solo on
Blue Train, inasmuch as it is a perfect example of
so many of the previously mentioned aspects of his
style and a good blues solo.
The tune itself is a revealing sample of Coltrane's
writing, being as direct and straightforward as his
playing, and offering a tremendous insight into his
overall conception. It is a most powerful blues line,
brooding, mysterious, almost like an eerie chant;
someone has remarked that it is more than just a
blues, that it has other meanings in it. This is true of
everything he does.
There are some unusual things about this solo.
For one thing, this recording was done during his
tenure with Thelonious Monk, and here and there
are isolated flashes of certain aspects of his current
work—sort of a preview of things to come, as it were.
I refer particularly to the "sheets of sound," which,
it is interesting to note, is a spontaneous development.
This solo continues to build up all the way to the
last chorus. It reaches its peak at the sixth chorus,
where the other two horns come in with a riff (Example 7a) which repeats six times, and adds even
more impetus. This constant building-up is a most
striking feature of Coltrane's work, and has been apparent even from his earliest days with Miles Davis.
Then, too, notice how he tends to stay in the high
register of his horn. Well, he can be justly proud of
that register. It is strong, clear and—in his hands—
full of a terrific emotional impact.
He does one thing that is unusual in that it is difficult to do well: he slurs those long phrases all the
way and plays them so clearly. There is ample evidence of how solid his technique is—that fluid, unerring finger action.
Lest you think that Coltrane's playing consists of
cooking and more cooking, I'd like to say a few
words about the way he handles slower tempos. I
mentioned earlier in discussing various aspects of
his technique, his fantastic control which enables
him to play a ballad without having to double-time
on it. But that control isn't all. Except for the fact
that he is more intense, his ballad concept could
be likened to that of Miles Davis. He has the same
straightforward, thoughtful approach. And I'm not
just talking about the classic 'Round Midnight he
did with Miles; there are plenty of other tracks which
provide a fine demonstration of this kind of lyricism:
his unusual interpretation of the seldom-done standard While My Lady Sleeps, for instance, or Slow
Dance, to give two examples. They are object lessons in how to play a ballad without unnecessary
"cooking."
That is Coltrane the instrumentalist—powerful, sensitive, ahead, and always experimenting. Now I'd
like to talk a bit about Coltrane the jazz composer
and arranger, inasmuch as it may throw still further
light on certain other aspects of his conception.
Coltrane's writing may not be quite as familiar as
his playing, except to his most avid followers. He is,
like Horace Silver and Benny Golson, always experimenting with different structures and unusual chord
progressions—but his writing is easily distinguishable from that of the other two.
For one thing, his melodic lines—blues or not—are
all very powerful, direct and straightforward, with
strong emotional impact. When he gets "funky" (the
theme of Blue Train is a perfect example) it is, as I
said earlier, hard, driving, intense—not like any
other kind. Even John Paul Jones, which he com-
posed a few years ago, could never be taken for a
line by someone like Horace Silver, despite the fact
that it is slower and more relaxed. (Example 8)
Among other tunes of this kind is one called Straight
Street, which, although based on twelve-bar phrases,
could never be mistaken for a blues. (Example 9)
The chord progression, by the way, is a characteristic one. If you look closely, you will notice that it
is the old familiar ll-V changes—with a twist not
instantly noticeable. Of course, you know that it's
this ll-V business, because I told you so, and there
it is in front of you. But if you were listening to it
for the first time, you might notice only that the
changes seem out of the ordinary. Coltrane handles
this so cleverly that you don't realize just what it is.
Another example of this occurs in Moment's Notice.
Example 10 gives part of the introduction.
si
in
!i
in
1
1
i
li
Ill
1
t
EE i
j
H
L
•
I
I
The deceptiveness that is part and parcel of Coltrane's writing also shows up in his blues Locomotion. The structure of this tune is not too unusual-.
12-12-8-12 blues is now almost standard on the East
Coast. But even here he has a little twist: he has
each succeeding soloist take an unaccompanied
eight-bar break before going into his solo.
But it is the rhythm of that eight-bar riff in the line
itself that is really confusing. (Example 11)
You hear it on the recording, and it sounds as if the
accented E-flat were on the first beat of the measure. As you can see, it isn't. (I was thrown off by it
on the first couple of hearings, and I'm supposed to
have a good ear!)
reconstruction of a tune or part of it, and right there
you get another view of his harmonic conception.
For instance, the first few bars of his arrangement
of While My Lady Sleeps. (Example 12)
Another illustration of the reconstructive process he
uses can be seen in what he does to the familiar
Latin-beat introduction so often played on Star Eyes.
(Example 13)
As I said in the first part of this series, the only
thing to expect from John Coltrane is the unexpected.
His approach to arranging is just as different as
everything else he does. Very often what he does
amounts to an almost complete reharmonization or
iaiL
Gill
ALEXIS KORNER
muddy waters
Rollingfork is a small extremely poor Negro community on Deer Creek in the southernmost part of
Mississippi. There, on April 4th, 1915, McKinley
Morganfield was born, the second son of 01 lie Morgenfield and Berta Jones. Berta Jones died when
McKinley was three, and he was taken to Clarkesdale in northern Mississippi to live with his grandmother, Delia Jones. He grew up and went to school
there, and only occasionally returned to Rollingfork
to visit his father. As he grew older, he went to work
on the Coahoma County plantations, but through
the influence of his father—01 lie Morgenfield played
the guitar and sang the blues as did many of his
friends—he had already started as a musician.
The first instrument McKinley learned to play was
the harmonica, and in Stovall, just outside Clarksdale, where he now lived, he was playing in a group
which consisted of himself, his two friends, Scott
Bowhandle and Sonny Simms (guitar and violin) and
Lewis Fuller on mandolin. This was a typical Negro
string band, and the music, strong with traditional
patterning, probably sounded very much like the
earlier jug bands, with harmonica, mandolin and violin embroidering above the ground base set by the
guitar.
The country string bands of this period—late 1920's
to mid-1930's—often possesed an almost baroque
flavour, with the rhythmic emphasis on the first and
third beat of the bar over which melody instruments
played delicately phrased patterns, deriving largely
from 'educated' Creole sources. I use the word
'baroque', in this instance, to describe an atmosphere strongly linked with the music of eighteenth
century northern Europe since it was this delicate
formal idiom which was brought to Louisiana.
In time it spread, largely through the agency of
the more socially acceptable Creoles of New
Orleans. Formalism is, in any event, an important
aspect of American Negro folkmusic, with improvisation, excepting in certain forms of jazz, playing
a secondary role. In fact, this particular form of
blues could be described as a type of NegroCreole chamber music, unhappily short-lived. By
about 1933 it was almost dead.
This was the music McKinley Morganfield was playing at local dances and it was quite opposite to his
present day style. But McKinley was fortunate in
his early removal to Clarksdale, for here in the
nortnern Mississippi area, were a number of extremely fine blues singers.
A country singer in those days had to be a musician,
an entertainer and a human newspaper—there is an
obvious parallel with the earlier European Minnesingers and the present day folksinger-musicians of
Roumania. The country singer had to find some personal means of expression without moving outside
the idiom of the blues. It was only within these
limits that his value could be absolute. Fortunately,
several outstanding singers in the pure blues tradition, frequented the Clarksdale area, among them
Son House, Charlie Patton, Son Bonds, Kokomo
Arnold and Robert Johnson.
These men all played guitar using a northern Mississippi 'bottleneck' style for many of their accompaniments. In this style of playing the guitar may
be tuned normally (E,A,D,G,B,E) or to an open
D Major chord (D,A,D,F,A,D)i. The strings, instead of being pressed down with the left hand
fingers, are played with the aid of a bottle neck—the
rough edges first smoothed over—or a piece of brass
tubing worn on the little finger of the left hand.
When this is passed up and down the strings, a
whining note is produced and a comparatively heavy
vibrato is obtained by moving the slide very slightly
over any one given fret. The really fine players of
this style* could control the pitch and tone of the
notes to produce an almost perfect match with the
voice, especially when singing in the falsetto register. And when Morganfield really started to play the
guitar, it was in the "bottle-neck" style with the D
Tuning.
He listened to all these good singers whenever they
were to be heard but the man who made the greatest
impression upon him was Robert Johnson.
Alan Lomax considers Johnson to have been one of
the greatest men in blues and, though not in complete agreement with this assessment, I feel that
he is a fine example of a country blues singer and
player. Able to pick (normal tuning) or slide (D
tuning) with equal facility, Johnson had a masterly
instrumental technique which was perfectly suited
to his high tenor voice; his falsetto was one of the
finest ever recorded in the blues. Johnson, from
(1) . The D Tuning is often referred to as 'Vastopol' Tuning.
This is a corruption of 'Sebastopol' and, we are told,
comes from the balalaika tuning brought to New Orleans
by Russian emigres in the early part of the 19th century.
(2) . This style is not peculiar to the Northern Mississippi region. It was fairly generally used and Texas, for instance,
produced some fine 'bottle-neck' musicians of whom
Ramblin' Thomas is a typical example.
whom young McKinley Morganfield learned much by
watching and listening, was a true wanderer, and
he never stayed long in one place. Within a short
time he was recording at San Antonio, Texas, and
McKinley was to see no more of him. But, today,
Muddy still plays Robert Johnson phrases when he
works over songs in private and, unlike many other
singer-guitarists, is pleased when this source is
recognised by occasional listeners.
More violent than Johnson's in style, Muddy's guitar
always lacked finesse and dexterity, tending toward more obviously robust patterns. Without Johnson's amazing timing, McKinley nonetheless succeeded in producing a vital rhythmic accompaniment which embodied all that he could manage
of Robert Johnson's "bottle-neck" technique and
phrasing. And, while McKinley copied, he also
changed, for the times were changing and music
was becoming less subtle, less formal, less precise,
more jagged.
In 1941 Alan Lomax came to Stovall in search of
Robert Johnson, to record him and bring him to
public attention. He came to Stovall to find that
Robert Johnson had wandered to Texas some five
years before and had supposedly died, poisoned by
a mistress. But the people in Stovall told him of a
fine singer who had modelled himself on Robert
Johnson, and Lomax decided that he should at least
hear him. When he had, he immediately recorded
him and, on Library of Congress (Nos. AAFS 18/AB
—78rpm.; No. AAFS L4—33V4rpm.) are transcribed
McKinley Morganfield's first recordings: Country
Blues and I Be's Troubled.
Country Blues is, in fact, Waters' version of Johnson's Walkin' Blues, and the guitar playing is almost
identical to that on Johnson's version. But while
Johnson's singing was phrased with intentional irregularity, with sudden swoops into falsetto, Muddy
phrased in more predictable patterns and used
falsetto sparingly, rarely for more than one bar at
a time. I Be's Troubled is also a twelve-bar blues
on the normal progression, but where Country Blues
is a slow blues with the words sung at double tempo
over a lurching 2/4 accompaniment, here the
melody rides at half tempo over a fast 4/4 rhythm.
And the accent is on the first and third beats, while
it is on the second and fourth beats in Country
Blues. This kind of shift in emphasis was, of course,
essential for a performer who might have to play
seven hours at a stretch for a dance or party. I Be's
Troubled has also been re-recorded by Muddy since
1941; one particularly good version is under the
title I Can't Be Satisfied.
In the winter of 1942-3, Muddy moved to Chicago,
where he worked in a paper mill during the day
time and played in the evenings at parties or sessions. Very slowly, for Chicago boasted a quantity
of fine singers and musicians, he began to make
a reputation, and he gained much experience working with established singers. Muddy has always been
extremely proud of his association with Sonny Boy
Williamson, the singer and harmonica player, and
his performance of Standing Around Crying^ is a
tribute to the influence which Williams has exercised on many singers since the 1940's. Here
Muddy uses Williamson's trick of stammering a
word, holding back a phrase until it is almost too
late to get it into the meter, then spitting it out*.
Muddy became known for his singing, and recording sessions followed.
Major influences on Muddy also included the
sounds of Chicago blues piano playing and his introduction to the electric guitar. He realised that,
to feel right, he would eventually require piano in
his group. With his early love for the harmonica
confirmed by the virtuosity of Sonny Boy Williamson, Muddy decided that it must become part
of his 'sound'. So he started working with Little
Walter, a fellow southerner and an excellent technician whose style was based on that of the great
Williamson. He later brought in Otis Spann, his
cousin—one of the finest blues pianists to be heard
today—to fill out the group; but Muddy's early commercial recordings were made with guitar, bass,
occasionally drums or washboard, and harmonica.
The guitar-harmonica accompaniment, played in
unison, is extremely effective behind Muddy's voice,
the bass and washboard play a backing mainly in
double time. The best of these recordings, I feel, is
Louisiana Blues, a thirteen and a half or fourteen
bar blues. Muddy's singing is already changing.
There is no doubt that Muddy has suffered in recent
years from the obsessive echo which has been used
on his recordings, and has seriously distorted both
his voice and the groups accompanying him. It has
affected his style: the patrons of a club go to hear
their idols as they have heard them on records, and
so Muddy has tended to coarsen his delivery to keep
up with his records.
(3) . THE BEST OF MUDDY WATERS. Chess !p 1427.
(4) . Sonny Boy Williamson actually had an impediment of
speech, on occasion, caused him to mumble or stammer
lyrics of his songs.
(5) . For fuller details of Muddy's early sessions and how
they occurred, refer to Paul Oliver's informative article
in the January, 1959 issue of Jazz Monthly.
(6) . THE BEST OF MUDDY WATERS. Chess Ip 1427.
But when one sees Muddy one also realizes a
second reason for the modification of his singing
style; it is his constant physical movement.
As he relied more on Otis and Little Walter as accompanists and less on his own guitar playing, he
introduced more dance movement into his stage
presentation with striking visual impact. And inevitably, since one cannot produce the same tones
standing on one leg with the diaphragm tightly contracted, his singing became less classical. Some
tones were chopped off short, others extended, and
the whole musical effect became more violent and
eccentric.
When Muddy sings one of the older blues such as
Blues Before Sunrise or Turn Your Lamp Down
Low, one can hear, immediately, that much of
his earlier style remains. It is only when one hears
him singing these older blues that one understands
fully Bill Broonzy's very high regard for Muddy, a
regard which is increased by the realization of
Muddy's considerable interest in the work of older
singers.
But if Muddy's delivery has changed, so have his
lyrics. Always an individualist, Muddy has tended
to write his own blues rather than sing other
people's and, in this respect, his stay in Chicago
seems to have been most beneficial. With his diction
becoming clearer there has been a heavier emphasis
placed upon the words and many of Muddy's present
day songs contain verses of outstanding poetic
character and expressiveness. These qualities are
all too rare in the blues-rock market.
Hoochie Coochie, (printed on the Blues page) is
one of Muddy's best recordings since the Library
of Congress sides. And in Still a Fool—a new version of his Rolling Stone Blues—Muddy starts with
this verse.
"Well now, there's two, two trains runnin'
And neither of them goin' my way.
Well now, one runs at midnight
And the other just before day."
The effect, direct yet mysterious, is extraordinarily
powerful and a good example of Muddy's great
strength in the blues: his lyrics. Whenever I have
heard him sing in private, I have been impressed
by the power and vividness of his imagery.
Muddy Waters has great personal dignity, great
masculinity and he believes intensely in his work.
He has not bettered the blues, he has only changed
them to suit the times. As I once heard him remark
to Otis Spann—he was listening to a 1932 recording of Bill Broonzy—"You see, Otis, they didn't need
a rhythm section then. Just one man, by himself,
he could swing like a whole group."
LeROI JONES
INTRODUCING
WAYNE
SHORTER
I knew Wayne Shorter first in Newark where
we were both, malevolently, born. He was
one of the two 'weird' Shorter brothers that
people mentioned occasionally, usually as
a metaphorical reference, ". . . as weird as
Wayne." Wayne and I never ran together,
or got on very intimate terms; we lived in
distant parts of the city, went to different
schools.
Wayne went to Newark's Arts High School.
I used to see him in the too-tight green and
grey band uniform, tootling on a silver horn.
Or meet him on High Street always 'clean,'
rather distant, and smiling, what I've come
to know as a really 'secret' smile. He was
playing tenor with a young group at most of
the high school crowd's dances throughout
the city. The band was Nat Phipps', and I
wish some one had recorded them. All 15,
16, 17, they played, then, with a mature
musicianship that would, I'm afraid, make
the Farmingdale High School band sound
dreary. (The Phipps band, by the way, still
plays around Newark, and still has several
very good musicians.)
Wayne was precocious; I heard many pretty
astounding things he was doing at 17 and
18. Even then, when he coudn't do anything
else, he could still make you gasp at sheer
technical infallability. That was when almost
every young body playing any kind of an
instrument, even bongo players, sounded
like Charlie Parker. Wayne did too. But even
as a Bird lover in a high school band, Wayne
managed to come up with power. I remember telling somebody, "Well, that's the hippest imitation of Parker you'll ever hear."
Nowadays, Charlie Parker's got nothing to
do with Wayne, except, perhaps, in -the sense
that Antonio Stradivari is an 'influence' on
Franscescatti.
When I got out of Newark permanently, after
college, I heard about Wayne occasionally.
Usually, talking over old times with old
cronies just out of their teens, and mentioning, almost wet-eyed, 'You remember how
Wayne Shorter used to play those fantastic
solos at The Masonic Temple?', tapping on
the table in a tempo so fast, Wayne would
probably still have trouble making it. But
that's a sense of it; the kind of aura he cast
even as an adolescent, maybe because we
were all adolescents . . . but I think not. I
think Wayne carries that aura around him
like an expensive Chesterfield. Talking to
him one senses immediately this air of 'invincibility.' Hearing him play, one is convinced it is no mere air.
Wayne went to N.Y.U. and graduated with a
degree in Music Education. But all during
this time, he was still playing with the
Phipps band, and staying over in New York
playing at sessions with the bigtimers. It
was at one of these sessions that he met
John Coltrane and they became very close
friends. It was also during this time that
Coltrane had just gone with Miles Davis.
John talked and played, Wayne listened and
also played.
After school, Wayne played around for a
while, and then, due largely to a session he
was in at a Newark spot called Sugar Hill,
was taken into the Horace Silver group.
Wayne made a few dates with them, including Birdland and Newport in 1956, but then
the army got him. Luckily, he managed to
get into the Fort Dix band, and stay there.
He came to New York every weekend, making sessions, and getting heard. He got out
of the army late last year, and in his brother
Allen's words, "Man, he went to the army
and took care of a lot of business." Wayne
started writing, practiced a lot, and most of
all, came out of it his own man, playing his
horn like nobody else around. He had passed
through two very critical stages of his life:
the young precocious imitator of Bird, and
the 'good' young session musician whose
ideas have not quite jelled. He is, now, almost at that third even more critical stage
of his career: the Innovator. He still has a
little way to go, but not so much as to make
anyone who's heard him, recently, doubt for
a second that he'll make it.
I'd say Wayne's style is linked to the two
Don Silverstein
Wayne Shorter
major tenor saxophonists of our day: Sonny
Rollins and John Coltrane. From Rollins, he
has learned what proper utilization of 'space'
(rests, doubletimes, "running through" bar
lines, etc.) can do in improvisation. Like
Rollins's, his solos are orderly and precise,
but, watching Wayne play, both eyes tight
shut, smiling during his short breaks, it is
obvious that the only chart he uses is somewhere behind his eyes. But Rollins seems to
stand, like Joyce, above and beyond his
work, paring his nails, Wayne and Coltrane
are right in the middle of the music, broil-
^fl
^ |
ing up at you with what seems to be a fantastic emotional thrust, but never railing,
or waving their arms meaninglessly.
But Wayne's music (the playing, the compositions) is unique, and seems, above all, important. The playing is characterized by an
almost 'literary' (in the best sense of the
word) arrangement of musical relationships,
Everything that comes out of the horn seems
not only "premeditated" (the fire and surprise of instantaneous extemporization is
always present), but definite, and assimillated . . . no matter how wild or unlikely it
might sound at first. He seems to be willing
to try anything. He usually makes it.
When I started this piece, Wayne was playing
tenor with Maynard Ferguson's big band, but
since he has gone into Art Blakey's Messengers. The night I went up to see Wayne with
the Fergusons I talked to Wayne after each
of three sets, wanting to get his voice in
this article.
"Well, of course, you don't get as many solos
as you'd like, but a lot of times things happen in a small group, and besides, we've
got a few people in this thing who really
cook. Slide Hampton, the trombone player,
he writes some fine things. We'll probably
play some of Slide's things later. You know,
I've got a few tunes in the book too."
"What it comes to is seriousness! Nothing
comes to anything unless you're serious
about it. Man, that's the only things I dig
. . . serious people doing serious things . ...
otherwise, there's not much to it. Of course,
there's such a thing as serious humour too.
You know? Like Monk. Man, that cat's jokes
are dead serious! To me, that's what people
like Sonny and John represent, a really serious approach to music. And with people
that are constantly improvising, you can see
the real accomplishment. It's amazing! At
least, it amazes me. John especially. I mean,
he doesn't ever stop taking care of business."
"What about traditional jazz musicians?
Have you ever listened to JeHy Roll Morton
or Louis or early Duke, with a conscious desire to incorporate their approaches?"
"Well, no. Although I've listened to a lot of
traditional people, especially Louis and
Duke, and may have gotten a couple of
things they were doing, unconsciously, but
I can just about feel what they were doing
without having to play that way myself to
find out. You know, what Bird played came
right through, and from everybody. Everybody who's saying anything plays like they've
heard everybody. I'd like to make a record
of Monk tunes, and one of Tad Dameron's
tunes. Of course, Monk's are greater, but Tad
did a lot of things that help all composers
out. But, Monk, Whew!"
"Well, if you do a record of Monk's tunes, I
wish you'd do some of those great things
nobody does because they're so tough to do,
Four-In-One, Humph, things like that."
"You said it, man. Everybody's afraid of
those tunes." He laughed, "I don't blame
'em either.
"You know, when you're into something . . .
like John, you may make a lot of fluffs and
clinkers . . . but that's in it too. All that stuff
counts. If you're really doing something, you
can't be safe . . . you've just got to blow . . .
and try to take care of some kind of business
(smiles) some way. Gee, I hope we play
those tunes of Slide's and mine this set. I
feel like playing something."
"Does Maynard take requests?"
"Yeh, sure . . . he goes for that. You know,
like you're a fan!"
'O.K.', what tunes shall I ask for?"
"Well, the best of Slide's tunes is called
Newport; mine is Nellie Bly."
After Oleo, the band went off into Slide
Hampton's Newport, swinging, lush, brassy.
Halfway through the tune, Wayne got up to
solo; after his first few notes, it was apparent
to almost everyone in Birdland that the
young man playing was the most exciting
thing that had happened all night. The only
thing wrong with the solo was that it was
too short. Taken at a seemingly impossible
double-timed tempo, it stiH was full of the
kind of fierce, certainly satirical, humour
that characterizes a Monk or a Rollins. When
Wayne finished the solo, most of the Birdland patrons broke into a loud happy applause. The minute the band went into
Wayne's Nellie Bly, a thirties hipster type behind me called out excitedly "Oh, oh . . .
some of that uptown stuff." He started popping his fingers vociferously. Wayne's solo,
this time, was even better. Half the solo at
double-time tempo. The fellows in the band
broke up. The coda was supposed to be a
unison thing with Wayne and Ferguson, but
Ferguson fluffed so badly, Wayne reared
back on his haunches and blew a long, long,
sustained, Ammons-like "honk," throughout
the entire passage. The old timer in back of
me fell out of his chair.
I walked towards the subway with the old
man in pursuit. "You know," he said, "You
can tell the bosses right away and that boy's
sure one of 'em."
I agreed happily and he shook my hand
warmly as we parted, taking "A" trains north
and south.
THE
FIXIN' TO DIE BLUES
I'm lookin' fire in my eyes and I believe I'm fixin' to die,
A H C M S
'
m, o o k i n
'
f i r e m m ve v e s a n d 1b e | i e v e , > mf i x i n
'>
te
od
i
I know \ was born to die but I ain't goin' to leave my children cryin'
Just as sure as we live everyday, sure we're born to die,
Sure we're born to die,
Just as sure as we live, sure we're born to die,
I know I was born to die but I ain't goin' to leave my children cryin'
Your mother treated me, children, like I was her baby child,
Was her baby child,
Your mother treated me, children, like I was her baby child,
That's why I tried so hard and come back home to die
So many nights at the fireside, how my children's mother would cry,
How my children's mother would cry,
So many nights at the fireside, how my children's mother would cry,
'Cos I ain't told their mother I had to say goodbye
Look over yonder, on the buryin' ground,
On the buryin' ground,
Look over yonder, on the buryin' ground,
Yonder stand ten thousand, standing to see them let me down
Mother, take my children back, before they let me down,
Before they let me down,
Mother, take my children back, before they let me down,
Ain't no use them screamin' and cryin* on that graveyard ground
(By Bukka White on Okeh 05588.
HOOCHIE COOCHIE
The gypsy woman told my mother
Before I was born
I got a boy child's comin'
Gonna be a son of a gun.
He's gonna make pretty womens
Jump and shout
Then the world gonna know
What this all about.
Cause you know I'm here
Everybody knows I'm here
Well, you know I'm a Hoochie Coochie Man
Everybody knows I'm here.
I got a black cat's bone
I got a mojo tooth
I got the John the Conqueroo
I'm gonna mess with you.
I'm gonna make you girls
Lead me by the hand
Then the world will know
The Hoochie Coochie Man.
Transcribed by Alexis Korner.)
Cause you know I'm here
Everybody knows I'm here
Well, you know I'm a Hoochie Coochie Man
Everybody knows I'm here.
On the seven hours
On the seven day
On the seven month
The seven doctors say
He was born for good luck
And that you'll see.
I got seven hundred dollar
Don't you mess with me.
But you know I'm here
Everybody knows I'm here
Well, you know I'm a Hoochie Coochie Man
Everybody knows I'm here.
(By McKinley Morganfield [Muddy Waters]
on Chess LP 1427.
Transcribed by Pete Welding.)
This is the second of a series of articles by Mr.
Borneman. The first appeared in September.
C R E O L E
P A R T
ECHOES
II
ERNEST BORNEMAN
There is a vast literature describing the Place
Congo [New Orleans] songs and dances, but perhaps the best record of them that we have is the
extraordinary music composed in the 1840s by
Louis Moreau Gottschalk, son of a German cotton
broker and a Creole mother, who transcribed much
of what he heard at the Place Congo into an idiom
which is formally European but shows an unusual
gift for transcribing African cross-rhythms into conventional notation.
Of his many works, La Bamboula, Oanse Negre,
Op. 2, and Le Bananier, Chanson Negre, Op. 5, are
perhaps the most impressive. How honestly he
preserved his source material can be judged from
the fact that at least one of his themes, Quand patate cuite na va mange li, survives up to the present
day in New Orleans in almost unchangd form.
What these transcriptions establish is three things:
the existence of a mature form based on African
rhythm, African call-and-response structure, and
Franco-Spanish tunes; a melodic profile almost
identical with that of Creole jazz; the recurrence
of a metrical scheme reminiscent of the Moorish
elements in flamenco.
In 1886, George Washington Cable published two
books—Creole Slave Songs and The Dance in the
Place Congo, with musical transcriptions by Mary
L. Bartlett, H. E. Krehbiel, Mme. Louis Lejeune and
John A. van Broekhoven. Krehbiel's transcriptions
are the best of these: they show how very accurate
Louis Moreau's ear and pen had been forty years
earlier. Once again we find the rudiments of Creole
jazz in unmistakable form, and once again we note
the extraordinary resemblance to the music of Martinique, Guadeloupe Santo Domingo and Trinidad.
Here is the source material of such jazz tunes as
Salee dame, Eh la bas, Moi pas I'aime ca, Ce monsieur qui parle, Les Oignons, C'est I'autre Cancan,
and Creole Bobo. But though the Creole songs of
the 1840-1880 era were essentially French in melody, the Creole dances of the same period showed a
surprisingly Spanish flavor. Some, in fact, are so
reminiscent of today's so-called Afro-Cuban music
that they could probably be taken over into the
repertoire of the Machito band without causing
raised eyebrows in Puerto Rican Harlem.
These dances—the counjaille, bamboula, chacta,
babouille and juba—must have had an influence on
early jazz. There are no recorded samples of them,
but it is significant that the early jazz themes have
a much more "Spanish" flavor than the later ones.
Jelly Roll Morton's New Orleans Blues, based on a
Creole song that Jelly heard in 1902, is of course
the most famous case in point. Other Jelly Roll
tunes that breathe the same atmosphere are Mama
'Nita, Spanish Swat, Fickle Fay Creep, Creepy Feeling, The Crave and his adaptations of La Paloma
and Tia Juana.
Even Jelly's lifelong enemy, W. C. Handy, agrees
that all the early Southern blues had a markedly
"Spanish" flavor. Handy himself, of course, reproduced this most accurately in Memphis Blues
(1912) and St. Louis Blues (1914). Note that Louis
Armstrong, though not a Creole himself, invariably
plays St. Louis Blues with a Creole beat.
Another Negro writer of the period whose ears were
particularly well tuned to the sound of Creole folkmusic was William H. Tyers, a West Indian. His
Trocha (1897), Maori (1908) and Panama (1911)
follow directly in the tradition of Louis Moreau and
the anonymous songs preserved by G. W. Cable.
Certainly the Creole influence runs right through
the ragtime idiom, from Jesse Pickett's Bowdigah's
Dream in 1898, through Fred Mack's Coon-jine
(counjaille) the same year and Louis Chauvin's
Babe, It's Too Long in 1906, to Scott Joplin's Heliotrope Bouquet (1907—based on a Chauvin tune—
and Chauvin was Creole), You're in the Right Church
But the Wrong Pew (Cecil Mack and Chris Smith,
1908), Scott Joplin's Solace Rag (1909), E. J.
Stark's Chicken Tango and Paul Pratfs Everybody
Tango (both 1914), Fred Fisher's and Felix Bernard's Dardanella (1919), Lucky Robert's Spanish
Venus (1923) and the famous Charleston the same
year.
Note that Cecil Mack, who wrote The Charleston
with Jimmie Johnson, had been using the same
kind of "Spanish bass" in his own You're in the
Right Church fifteen years earlier. Note also that
many of the early records by the Original Dixieland
Jazz Band (which borrowed its themes and phrasing
from Creole jazz) showed the same beat, in particular Oriental Jazz (1917), At the Jazz Band Ball
(1918), Fidgety Feet (1919), Sphinx, Sudan and
Palesteena (1921). The earliest Negro jazz on record—particularly Indianola and Arabian Nights by
Jim Europe's Hellfighters—exhibits similar "Spanish" phrasing. These records were made in 1919,
four years before the first King Oliver discs, and
demonstrate conclusively what was further documented in 1924 by Piron's West Indies Blues and in
1925 by the Jim Dandies' Geechee Dance.
When the jazzmen moved north, they lost touch
with Creole music—which, of course, simply means
African music filtered through Spain and France—
and started playing Tin Pan Alley tunes. In fact,
almost nowhere except in the blues did a flavor of
pre-Bolden jazz survive. The sole exception, apart
from the blues, occurred in the series of recordings
made by Creole jazzmen in exile—Jelly Roll, Bechet,
Ory, Nicholas and company.
Here we have Jelly's Tia Juana and his two versions
of Mamamita in 1924, the Original Jelly Roll Blues
of 1926 with Castanet accompaniment, Barbados
and Creole with Dave Nelson in 1930, two versions
of Fickle Fay Creep in 1931, two of Creepy Feeling
in 1938, and of course the whole series of "Spanish
tinge" recordings for the Library of Congress that
same year.
The next year, barely three weeks before Jelly Roll
made his last Creole record, The Crave (14 December 1939), one of the milestones of jazz history was
set—Sidney Bechet's session with the Haitian Serenades (22 November 1939). I have heard ten of
these sides—Rose Rumba, Merengue d'amour, Ti
Ralph, Baba, Nana, Diane, Mayotte, Sous les palmiers, Tropical Moon and Magic Island—but Bechet
told me that another four sides of "original Haitian
music" were recorded. If these are indeed what
Sidney says they are, then they would constitute the
first deliberate reunion of jazz and Afro-Spanish
folkmusic in history—predating the formation of the
Machito band by a year.
Certainly a deliberate effort to return to Creole jazz
can be detected hereafter in the music of all jazzmen who had ever heard the real thing. Listen to
Creole George Guesnon's 1940 blues tracks, especially Iberville and Franklin, then to Ory's 1944
version of C'est I'autre cancan, and the Creole
Stompers' and wooden Joe Nicholas' versions of Eh
la bas in 1945, and you will see what I mean. By
1947, when Ory made his own versions of Eh la
bas, the Creole style had been reconstituted almost
intact. There are traces of it in Ory's Creole Bobo,
Wooden Joe's Ai, Ai, Ai, the All Star Stompers'
Dardanella and the Creole Serenaders' Moi pas
I'aime ca, Salee dame and Les oignons during the
same year, in Bechet's Broken Windmill in 1949,
Wilbur de Paris' The Pearls and The Martinique in
1952, Albert Nicholas' Moi pas I'aime ca in 1953, de
Paris' Madagascar and Armstrong's Chantez les bas
in 1954, Barbarin's Eh la bas, Parenti's Vieux Carre
and Buckner's Martinique in 1955 and just about
every one of such Bechet Paris recordings as Creole
Blues, Lastic, Les oignons, Le marchand de poisson
and so on.
A particularly good bloc of Creole recordings were
made in 1955 by Omer Simeon—Grand Boubousse,
Qua-ti Rhythm, Qua-ti Blues, and Lagniappe, with
Sam Price on piano and Zutty on drums, neither of
them Creole jazzmen, but both' of them sufficiently
sensitive to the real heritage of jazz to blend perfectly with Simeon's Creole clarinet.
All this made at long last an impression on the
revivalists. Bob Scobey recorded some mildly interesting tracks with Fred Higuera on bongoes, and
some of the other revivalists explored such tunes as
Blanche Touquatoux, Rum and Coca Cola and Ce
monsieur qui parle. Far and away the most interesting development to arise out of this back-to-CreoleJazz movement among the traditionalists occurred
in England—not because English jazzmen were
superior to American ones, nor because they showed
greater percipience, but simply because they found
themselves in daily contact with West Indian musicians.
The conditions in the English jazz world during the
late 'forties and early 'fifties had this much in common with those of early New Orleans: the presence
of a large contingent of Negroes who had absorbed
the Creole tradition; a body of fairly skilled white
instrumentalists who were willing to listen and
learn; a style of phrasing still flexible enough to be
bent in almost any direction.
Out of this came some of the best Creole Jazz
recordings ever made. Largely inspired by Freddy
Grant, a brilliant West Indian clarinetist and arranger, Humphrey Lyttelton recorded between 1951
and 1957 these 21 tunes: Tia Juana, Buona Sera,
Tangana, Ce Mossieu qui parle, Mamzelle Josephine,
C'est filon, L'annee passee, It's Mardi Gras, Creole
Serenade, Red Beans and Rice, Fish Seller, Coffee
Grinder, Fat Tuesday, Muskrat Ramble, King Porter
Stomp, London Blues, Original Jelly Roll Blues,
Friendless Blues, Heat Wave, I Love Paris and The
Lady in Red.
The best of these sides came out under the name
of "The Grant-Lyttelton Paseo Band"—and the word
paseo in the title indicated (if anything was needed
to indicate it) the continuing dependence of Creole
jazz on the Spanish tradition. Jelly Roll Morton used
to insist that there could be no jazz without "the
Spanish tinge," and history has borne him out
triumphantly. In fact, jazz might well have died out
or become absorbed by country blues, hillbilly
music or Tin Pan Alley (look what's happening to
skiffle and rock and roll) if it had not been for an
event which I have never seen mentioned in any
jazz history—the Jones Act of March 2, 1917,
whereby the island of Puerto Rico became a territory of the United States and citizenship was
conferred collectively on Puerto Ricans.
RECORD REVIEWS
DIZZY GILLESPIE: "Groovin' High".
Savoy M6 12020.
Gillespie, trumpet; Belter Gordon,
tenor; Frank Paparelli, piano; Clutch Wayne,
guitar; Murray SMpinsfcy, bass; Saeiley
Manne, drums.
Blue V Boogie; February 9,1945.
Gillespie, trumpet; Cfnrtie Parker, alto
Clyde Hart, piano; Remo Patonieri, guitar;
Slam Stewart, bass; Cozy Cole, drums.
«roovin' "Ufa Dizzy Atmosphere; All the
/Mags Voa Are; February 29,1945.
Gillespie, trumpet; Parker, alto M Haig,
piano; Curly Russell, bass; Sid Catlett, drums.
Salt Peanuts; Hat House; May 11,1945.
Gillespie, trumpet; Saray Stitt, alto Haig,
piano; Ray Brawn, bass; Kenny Clarke,
drums; HW lacksen, vibes.
Cop Bop Sh'bam; That's Earl, Brother;
May 15,1946.
Gillespie, Save Burns, Raymond Orr, Talin
Oaawood, is4ra Lynch, trumpets; Alton
Moore, Leon Cormenge, Gordon Thomas,
trombones; Howard Johnson, Lucky Warrea,
Ray Abrams, John Brown, Saul Moore,
saxes; Jetw lewis, piano; Brown, bass;
Clarke, drums; Jackson, vibes.
Our Delight; June 10,1946. One Bass Hit
Part II; Rays Idea; Things to Came;
July 9,1946.
Matthew McKay, Elmon Wright, trumpets;
Taswell Baird, trombone; Scoops Carey,
alto; Bill Frazier, tenor; Joe Harris, drums
replace Orr, Daawood, Cormenge, Johnson,
Abrams, Clarke.
Emanon; November 12,1946.
DIZZY GILLESPIE: "The Champ".
Savoy MG 12047.
Gillespie, trumpet; John Coltrane, tenor;
Jackson, vibes; Kenny Bnrrell, guitar; Percy
Heath, bass Kansas Fields, drums.
Tin Tin Deo Birk's Works; March 1,1951.
Gillespie, trumpet; J. J. Johnson, trombone;
Bud Johnson, tenor; Jackson, piano, vibes;
Heath, bass; Art Blakey, drums.
The Champ; April 16,1951.
Bill Graham, alto, baritone; At Jones, drums
replace Johnson and Blakey. Johnson out.
Swing Low Sweet Cadillac; August 16,1951.
Stuff Smith, violin added.
Caravan; The Bluest Blues; Sunny Side of
the Street; Stardust; October 25,1951.
Time on my Hands; They Can't Take That
Away from Me, date uncertain.
Gillespie, trumpet; Graham, baritone; Wynton
Kelly, piano; Bernard Griggs, bass-,
Al Jones, drums.
Ooo-shoo-be-doo-bee; July 18,1952.
DIZZY GILLESPIE: "The Dizzy Gillespie
Story". Savoy MG 12110.
Gillespie, Burns, trumpets; John Brown,
alto; James Moody, tenor; Hank Jones, piano;
Ray Brown, bass; Joe Harris, drums;
Jackson, vibes.
Boppin' the Blues; Smokey Hollow Jump;
Moody Speaks; For Hecklers Only.
September 25,1946.
Gillespie, trumpet; Henry Coker, Richard
Kenny, Harold Smith, trombones; Shirley
Thompson, baritone; and a studio string
string orchestra conducted by Johnny
Richards. Arrangements by Johnny Richards.
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot; Lullaby of the
Leaves; I Found a Mililon Dollar Baby;
What Is There to Say?; October 31,1950.
Alone Together; These Are the Things I
Love On the Alamo; Interlude in C;
November 1,1950.
;
;
;
Dizzy Gillespie
;
;
Bid Spilka
;
The varied facets of Gillespie's influence can be heard in so much
modern jazz that it is scarcely necessary to discuss the details of his style.
Yet while his influence over nearly a
decade and a half is undeniable his
position in jazz is now quite changed
since those few years following the
initial impact of bop. For us in Europe
—and, I suppose, for the great majority
of listeners everywhere—that impact
was first felt through the records
Gillespie made—some with Parker—for
obscure companies like Guild and Musicraft in 1945 and '46. Hearing them
again so long after, or to have gone on
listening to them over the years, is
a considerable experience. On first acquaintance they may have seemed to
possess a somewhat contrived audacity
but that they retain the power to delight and astonish us is sufficient
indication of their worth and true originality. Uneven they may be, but all contain great moments and some now
sound like jazz classics—sound, that
is, as if their value will no more diminish in the future that it has in the
past. Some of them can be heard on
Savoy MG 12020.
Many elements went into the making
of modern jazz: some were the creation
of individuals and some the result of
cross-fertilisation of ideas; some had
been for years developing in pre-war
jazz, others came from spontaneous insights. The early Gillespie records are
the first preserved collective expression
or synthesis of all the playing, experimenting and thinking that had gone
on. Bop presented multilateral innovations: melodic, harmonic, rhythmic,
etc., and, as these took several years
to integrate into a homogenous
idiom, it was in some ways fortunate
modern jazz was not recorded until
1945. The new jazz of 1943-4
would have been interesting but
immature. By 1945 the key musicians
were ready.
If they were ready most of the recording supervisors were not and because
it was not understood that they were
presenting something really fresh, bop
musicians often shared sessions with
unsuitable companions. Thus on many
records the new and established jazz
idioms were heard side by side. This
prevented properly integrated performances and was disadvantageous
to the repertoire that was another of
the new things the bopsters had
to offer. Again, this repertoire—pieces
like Hot House and Shaw 'Nuff—
has been the model, even if sometimes
indirectly, of so many jazz compositions that it is superflous to
describe it.
Several of these points are illustrated
by Blue 'n' Boogie, the first title recorded under Gillespie's name. He is
heard with a gathering of musicians
who, though advanced in relation to the
then prevailing swing idiom, show no
real affinity with his ideas. Murray
Shipinsky's bass is acceptable but
Shelly Manne—understandably, this was
February 1945—doesn't know the
kind of support Gillespie needs. Chuck
Wayne plays a good modern-swing style
solo but does not increase the effectiveness of the rhythm section. Add to
this the squareness of Frank Paparelli's
piano solo and fill-ins and the whole
pulse of the performance is wrong.
Despite this, and although the virtuosity was not as immaculate as it was
soon to become, Gillespie's lengthy
solo is fairly typical of his early maturity. Although somewhat loosely put together, it contains features of melodic
invention, rhythmic structure, harmonic
thinking and tone that were shortly
to be recognized as characteristic and
some of which he retains today. Notwithstanding Parker's work on Tiny
Grimes' 1944 recordings, Monk's with
Coleman Hawkins the same year,
and some of the Eckstine band titles,
this solo is the first fully-fledged
statement we have by a modern
jazz musician.
Later the same month Gillespie recorded with a more sympathetic personnel including Parker and Clyde Hart.
Remo Palmieri's chugging guitar
is no help, but Cozy Cole is a far more
skilled and adaptable drummer. Slam
Stewart is an insufficiently attacking
bassist but fits into the scheme of
things better than anyone who has not
heard the titles could believe, and his
solos on two of them are among his
best in any context. Hart pecks out
the changes with discretion and sympathy and was one of the few pianists
qualified for this kind of music at the
time. (Speaking of this period Oscar
Pettiford said, "All of us were thinking about the new style, trying to get
used to play it. Clyde was the only
pianist that could play those things
without any trouble.") Groovin' High
and Dizzy Atmosphere are typical compositions of the bop repertoire and
excellent vehicles for both horns—better than much Gillespie has found
since. Parker plays fluently, revealing—
especially in Groovin' High—a side of
his solo personality not much represented on records. His tone has an airy,
singing lightness reminiscent of Benny
Carter and the solos are shaped with
melodic grace and elegance. This delicacy again characterised his playing
on the Ornithology/Yardbird Suite date
of March 1946 and, to a lesser degree,
the Stupendous/Cheers session of February '47. But it was always rare. Gillespie has two solos in Groovin' the
first of which begins strikingly but ends
with a miscalculated and ineffective
descending phrase that leads into a
bland guitar solo. At the close the
tempo halves and he plays four bars
of beautifully-shaped legato trumpet
unlike anything recorded before. In
the faster Dizzy Atmosphere he takes a
daring solo that imparts the essence
of the bop solo style, and in itself
gives a very good idea of why he occupied so commanding a position in
the early days of modern jazz. After
the solos there is an attractive and unusual unison passage for the horns that
leads back to a partial re-statement of
the theme. All the Things You Are commences with the riff that had opened
Eckstine's Good Jelly recording of the
year before. Hart is unusually conservative in his solo but Parker's eight bars,
though fragmentary, look forward to
the three lovely Bird of Paradise solos
based on this sequence he was to
record of Dial in 1947.
The date that produced Hot House and
Salt Peanuts has a better personnel
still. AI Haig, the finest bop pianist
for group playing and accompaniment,
was present and Curly Russell was on
bass. Sid Catlett's conception was appropriately sensitive to the requirements of the music even though he
could not provide quite the backing
Kenny Clarke might have given. Using
the chords of standard ballads as the
basis for new compositions was common during this period and Tadd
Dameron's Hot House is a superior example of the practice. The trumpet
solo here is nicely poised over Haig's
sensitive accompaniment and contains
some passages that effectively illustrate
the use of double-time in bop. Parker
sharply contrasts some of his phrases in
a way typical of his later solos.
Salt Peanuts has more scoring than
usual and some interesting harmonic
touches. It is a good, rather aggressive
theme based on an octave-jump idea
and the scoring yields a somewhat fuller
sound than one might expect from
a two-horn ensemble. Parker
sounds less assured than usual but
Haig's solo is especially good. Gillespie
is better still. His entry could hardly
be more arresting and underlines as
clearly as any moment in these records
the absolute freshness of his imagination at this time; surely no one before
would have associated such a passage
with the trumpet. The rest of the solo
is played with great conviction. (In another version of this recorded soon
after with a less sympathetic group the
trumpet solo replaces some of this
intensity with greater clarity of
organization.)
Parker's work was very uneven
throughout 1945 and never on these
sessions has the vividness and power
it was soon to acquire. Even so, it
is noticeable that on the records from
which he is absent Gillespie dominates more. Twelve months after the
Hot House recording Gillespie led a
session on which—at last—all the participants played in the bop idiom.
Sonny Stitt, who was just gaining a
reputation as the first man to emulate
Parker's style, has a fair sixteen-bar
solo on Oop Bop Sh' bam that is close
to his exemplar in tone but is much
simpler in melodic concept. The trumpet playing is bolder than ever and
on this title Gillespie take one of
the best solos he had recorded
up to this point.
Eight of the titles on Savoy MG 12020
are by these small groups. It is unfortunate others could not be included,
particularly Shaw 'nuft, Good Bait, I
Can't Get Started, and Bebop—the two
latter containing perhaps Gillespie's
finest solos of the period. As it is
the remainder of the disc is occupied
by five performances by the big band—
his second—Gillespie led in the later
'forties. Despite the originality of their
small combo work the boppers did not
establish a comparable big band idiom.
Because of its complexity bop was essentially small group music. The additional harmonic vocabulary could
easily be written into band scores but
the melodic complexity of the leading
soloists' improvisations, and some of
the rhythmic devices could not. Brass
and reed scoring did show the influence of Parker's and Gillespie's
melodic paterns and thus had a degree
of originality but there was no
innovation in ensemble texture or the
relationships of the sections. It would
be broadly true to say the bop men
adapted their style to the big band,
rather than the converse.
The best arranger was Gil Fuller. While
possessing a fine sense of the big band
style and an acute awareness of the
requirements of the large ensemble he
appeared to sacrifice fewer of the new
innovations and to compromise less
with tradition. In spite of this, his arrangements, more complex than Basie's,
less subtle of texture than Ellington's,
seem in their use of the orchestra as
a virtuoso instrument to derive from
Sy Oliver's work with Lunceford. Marked
differences arise from Fuller's harmonic
and melodic vocabulary, but both men
used their orchestras as vehicles for
dazzling ensemble virtuosity with sharp,
almost dramatic contrasts of texture.
Yet Fuller's imagination, like Oliver's,
was disciplined and he never wrote
passages that were eccentric or unbalanced. The work of both arrangers
is characterised by clarity of texture
and exceptional fullness and depth of
sound. If there is a band score that
reflects the spirit of Gillespie's solos
it is Fuller's Things to Come. Unfortunately it was played too fast in
the recording studio to produce its full
effect, and Fuller got this conception
over more successfully in "The Scene
Changes," which he recorded for Discovery in 1949. Even so, Things
remains a brilliant score with astonishing interplay between the sections
and harshly accented brass chords.
Here and in One Bass Hit, Part two
Gillespie's solos are not very happy. The
ideas are evident as usual but it is
as if he experienced difficulty in shaping his material in relation to the
heavier sounds and thicker textures of
this context. Remarks about the basically traditional scoring of most of
these performances are illustrated by
the conventional theme statement of
Dameron's excellent Our Delight and
the saxophone writing in One Bass Hit.
Both in Our Delight and Ray's Idea
Gillespie responds to the melodic substance of the theme with masterful
solos better aligned with their accompaniment than usual. In Emanon, a
blues, there are unusually forceful
exchanges between trumpet and orchestra, some pungent ensemble dissonances, a solo by John Lewis and
remarkable unaccompanied scoring
for the trumpets.
Some interesting though less significant small combo recordings from this
period (1946) are reissued on Savoy
MG 12110. Among those featured is
John Jackson, a now forgotten Parker
disciple whose solos—like Stiffs at this
time—resemble his exemplar in tone
but were in a far simpler melodic
style. The trumpeter Dave Burns was
a rather more positive follower of
Gillespie. His work is unusual in that
he thoroughly understood the Gillespie
conception and was able to play
fluently within it without having the
originator's extraordinary technical
equipment. It is illuminating to compare them as they alternate on Smokey
Hollow Jump. Despite their resemblance to Gillespie's Burn's ideas are
somewhat predictable and, on Moody
Speaks, very nearly commonplace.
Again, the themes are fairly typical of
the style and period and two of them,
Smokey Hollow and For Hecklers Only,
were partly composed by Gil Fuller.
Gillespie's best solo of the session
comes on the latter title and he makes
a sober muted contribution to
Boppin' the Blues. Although he is not
too happy in the bridge, Smokey
Hollow has one of Milt Jackson's better
early solos. James Moody plays
very poor tenor on each title.
It was also in 1946 Gillespie made his
first records with strings. These were
of some of Jerome Kern's tunes and
remained unissued because of objections made by the composer's widow.
In 1950 he made another attempt and
recorded eight miscellaneous titles.
Eddie South, in some delightful records
made in Paris with Django Reinhardt
more than twenty years ago proved the
violin can be a good solo jazz instrument but the lead he then gave was
never properly followed up and en
masse, strings have been a consistent
failure. It has become widely believed
they cannot be successfully employed
in jazz because of their sweetness.
This is untrue and the orchestration
of contemporary composers like Bartok
—e.g. in his Divertimento for Stringsshows that when employed with adequate insight and accomplishment
strings will yield a wide variety of invigorating sounds. The writing on all
jazz albums utilising strings has been
amateurish and based on thernost
facile conceptions of light music. The
scores Johnny Richards produced for
Gillespie are probably the worst of all,
and in some the strings are only one
of a number of practically irreconcilable elements. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
opens with a thin, light music introduction that is quite unrelated to
what follows. The rhythm is established
by Latin American instruments and a
small group of male voices sings not
the beautiful original melody but a
commonplace new one—presumably by
Richards. Gillespie also sings, quite
agreeably, and sounds oddly like Louis
Armstrong, though less husky. His trumpet solo has continuity and ideas that
are suprisingly good in view of the
distracting accompaniment. A final
touch of incongruity is provided
by the recapitulation of the string introduction. Alone Together has an
absurd haunted house opening but the
strings accompany Gillespie's theme
statement without too much obstruction. Nor are they unduly offensive in
These Are The Things I Love, but
little enthusiasm can be expected from
Gillespie in this context and a soloist
can derive no impetus from such accompaniments. Lullaby of the Leaves is
brisker and has a few dashing trumpet
phrases but Gillespie never sounds
really involved. He blows more forcefully in On the Alamo but is unable to
develop a train of thought as his solo
passages are separated by interludes in
ghastly good-taste by strings and piano
(Paul Smith). Interlude in C is a tasteless hodge-podge based on a theme
from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto
No. 2. The string writing seems to be
the worst in the collection but perhaps
this is only because of the unavoidable
comparison with Rachmaninoff's own.
These string sessions were experimental and their failure is not in
itself particularly significant. It is only
when we consider the bulk of Gilespie's
recording in the 'fifties that a number of disturbing points arise. An
uninspiring selection from some 1951
sessions can be heard on Savoy MG
12047 and, as they are all too typical
of what was to follow, a few comments
on them must be made first. The Champ
is really a good theme but all the
solos, except J. J. Johnson's, are exhibitionistic and empty. Gillespie's is
cohesive enough but he employs the
more superficial of his mannerisms
rather glibly. Tin Tin Deo and Birk's
Works are pleasantly restrained, if
slightly negative, performances with
some good moments from Milt Jackson
on the latter. On several titles Gillespie is unsuitably teamed with the
violinist Stuff Smith. One of them,
Caravan, suits the trumpeter particularly well but Smith's sawing in
the foreground is distracting and unpleasant. Joe Carroll's rather expressionless singing and Smith's all
too expressive violin playing go
amusingly well together in Time on
My Hands. Stardust features Gillespie
throughout and is a thoughtful but
still rather pedestrian track.
The prevailing impression conveyed by
these and many similar records is of an
artist who no longer wishes to dominate, or indeed to control, his sur-
roundings. Isolated fine records have
got made but for a long time now it
has been as if Gillespie no longer has
an objective and has even lost his
sense of direction. This is as true of
recent items as those mentioned above.
Despite the fine work of Rollins and
Stitt on Sonny Side Up (Verve MGV
8262) the most notable aspect of that
record for me was Gillespie's failure,
not merely to dominate, but, almost, to
assert himself at all. The contrast between all this and his brilliant and
purposeful work in the 'forties is all
too obvious. Whatever may be the individual personal assessment of their
worth, Gillespie's early small combo
records indisputably embody a genuine
re-thinking of the basic essentials of
jazz in new terms. Nothing he has done
since can alter Gillespie's vital position in the earlier developments
of modern jazz, nor can the subsequent
influence of the music he created in
those years be disputed. The question
his later records compel us to
ask is why he has failed to maintain
his commanding position and go
on to further achievements—for today
he is just an unusually individual
soloist who only occasionally
extends himself.
Perhaps part of the answer lies in the
nature of the man's gifts. Louis
Armstrong's abilities as an actor and
'showman' have impeded the total fulfillment of his musical genius and it
may be Gillespie is too much of a funman to wish or be able to maintain
any kind of 'leading' position for long.
Creator and clown cannot exist peacefully together indefinitely and in the
commercial climate in which jazzmen
must work musical gifts must often
take second place to more easily appreciated qualities. Again, when his big
band broke up early in 1950 he found
is necessary somehow to broaden the
scope of his appeal—records show his
tone changed at about this time—and
this may have led to a dissipation
of his talents.
These tentative explanations may be
wide of the mark but it is already clear
that Gillespie's failure to retain the
unique and creatively influential
position he once had is one of the
most notable failures of modern
jazz in the decade now ending.
Max Harrison
CANNONBALL ADDERLEY: "Jump for
Joy". Mercury MG 36146.
Julian "Cannonball" Adderley, alto sax;
Emmett Berry, trumpet; Bill Evans, piano;
Barry Galbraith, guitar; Milt Hinton, bass
Jimmy Cabb, drums; Gene Orloff and Leo
Kruczek, violins; Oave Schwartz, viola,George Ricci, cello.
;
Two Left Feet; Just Squeeze Me; I Got It
Bad And That Ain't Good,- Nothin'; Jump
For Joy; Bli-Blip; Chocolate Shake; If Life
Were All Peaches And Cream; Brownskin
Gal In A Calico Gown; The Tune Of The
Hickory Stick. All arrangements by Bill Russo.
This is certainly one of the most unusual jazz records to come out in some
time: the fine arranging talent of Bill
Russo, the brilliant alto work of Cannonball Adderley, and a Duke
Ellington score which should be
done more often.
Russo has done a masterful job. The
arrangements bear the stamp of his
personality, and at the same time retain the Ellington spirit. He makes use
of some most unusual sonorities
which at times remind one of some of
those "Cannonball Adderley with
Strings" sides, particularly the soulful
I Got It Bad and If Life Were All
Peaches And Cream. He gets a lovely
effect on Squeeze Me which recalls the
Miles Davis interpretation in its gentleness. He gives Two Left Feet and
Hickory Stick just the right touches
of humor.
But I have some reservations about the
string quartet on certain tracks. On
Bli-Blip Russo has the quartet do some
percussive effects—good, but I miss
the impact of a full band here.
The same is true of many of the
other faster tracks. The use of the
string quartet in these instances gives
me the impression of the Budapest
group trying to play Night In Tunisia
—it doesn't sound right. But it's
worth a try, isn't it?
Adderley does some of his finest playing on this record. He seems to have
a feeling for these tunes, and it shows.
He has a fine natural swing to his
playing which seems made to order
for stuff like this, and I'd like to hear
him do more of it. He does everything—
he cooks his head off, he does the
ballads with a quiet yet intense lyricism, he gets funky, and all at just
the right time. It is interesting to note
how far he has progressed in the formation of a style all his own; this
recording was done in 1958, not too
long after he had joined Miles Davis,
and the effects of his exposure to
Miles and John Coltrane are plain.
Cannonball is breaking further away
from the Charlie Parker mold all of the
time, doing things of his own and
making them come out of that horn.
His distinctive, brilliant sound, a tremendous sound for an alto—at times
it sounds more like a light tenor—
adds new dimensions to these tunes.
Emmett Berry is effective in his occasional solo spots and adds depth to the
supporting group. The rhythm
section is alert, sure and solid, with
Evans and Hinton in particular
standing out.
Zita Carno
r
I
b l u e
n o t e
THE FINEST IN J A Z Z
SINCE 1939
1
A
donaldson
with
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LOU DONALDSON
WITH THE THREE SOUNDS
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As Lou said. " A musician who really plays
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think you'll realize that both Lou and The
Three Sounds have it here.
BLUE NOTE 4012
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BLUE NOTE 4015
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IVnr Soil. With Donald Byrd, Walter Davis
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The Scene Change,.
Art Taylor.
With Paul Chambers,
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RUBY BRAFF: "Easy Now".
RCA Victor LPM-1966.
Ruby Braff, Emmett Berry, trumpets; Bob
Wilbur, tenor sax; Vic Dickenson, trombone-,
Leonard Gaskin, bass; Mundell Lowe, guitar;
Marty Napoleon, piano; Don Lamond, drum.
My Walking Stick; When My Sugar Walks
down the Street; This is my Lucky Day;
For Now; I Just Couldn't Take It Baby
Little Man You've Had a Busy Day.
Ruby Braff, Roy Eldridge, trumpets; Hank
Jones, piano; Lowe, Gaskin, and Lamond.
Willow, Weep for Me The Song is Ended;
Give my Regards to Broadway; Someday
You'll be Sorry; Yesterdays.
;
;
I think I would have enjoyed this
music more if I had heard it in
person; the warmth of it doesn't reach
me on this record—and I think it's
for technical reasons that it doesn't.
The microphones in general use
nowadays are unfair to the whole style
of jazz this record represents.
Nowadays most of the recording is done
with Telefunken microphones,
or others with similar
characteristics, that pick up the
top part of the sound and emphasize
the highs, without enough lows.
This musical style is played
with plenty of highs in the first
place, and when they are emphasized
by recording equipment, the result
is not true to what the players
sound like. The music sounds shrill,
and when a player opens up, it
comes out as a shriek, like a small
insect flying in angry circles
around a room.
I like everybody on this record in
varying degrees, but I prefer the tracks
with two trumpets to the septet
tracks. I think that the arrangements
on the septet tracks were made only for
the instrumentation, not for the men
involved. These men have very
individual timbres and vibratos; this
kind of anonymous ensemble writing
doesn't work out for them, nor they
for the writing.
There are a lot of tracks, but a
monotony of tempos. I get
impressions of just two—a medium
bounce, and a ballad tempo a
bit slower.
Sometimes when the two trumpets
are playing together I couldn't
tell which was who—especially with
Roy and Ruby, but on the other
hand, I haven't heard as much of them
as I would like to have.
Emmett Berry is an unsung hero.
I like him especially for his rhythmic
conception; he really gets into the
middle of the beat and sits right
on it. Even playing alone, he would
have that kind of fine inside
time and swing.
I particularly like Vic Dickenson,
but this record makes me want
to hear him in person.
Of course, Roy has developed his own
voice and should stick to it. He
was also one of the most important
of the men who developed the style of
the thirties. Those men had to do it
for themselves; they had had few
examples to fall back on, comparatively
few men who preceded them from
whom to develop their styles.
On the other hand, you would think
that a younger man who took up a
style of a time before his own
would find no challenge in it since,
you might say, so much of the work has
been done for him. He might find that
way of playing a pleasure, but only
easy fun. But I don't think that that is
true of Ruby: he does find a
challenge in the style, and he is
creative in it. However, I don't think
he or anyone else happened to
find their challenge this time
on this Ip. It seems to me that the
same men could have done the same
thing as well almost any time.
Art Farmer
JOHN BENSON BROOKS: "The Alabama
Concerto". Riverside RLP 12-276.
Art Fanner, trumpet; Julian Adderley, alto
sax; Barry Galbraith, guitar; Milt Hinton,
bass; Brooks, piano (third movement only).
First Movement; The Henry John Story; Some
Lady's Green; Green Rocky Breasts (Nature!);
Job's Red Wagon.
Second Movement: Trampin'; The Loop.
Third Movement: Little John Shoes;
Milord's Calling.
Fourth Movement: Blues For Christmas;
Rufus Playboy; Grandma's Coffin.
"The Alabama Concerto" is derived
from "folk music" thematic sources
encountered by John Benson Brooks
during an association with the folklorist Harold Courlander. It is, of
course, somewhat of a misnomer to
refer to it as a concerto; it comes
far closer to being an updated form
of the concerto-grosso, in that it consists of a suite-like series of theme
and variation movements constructed
in a ripieno-concertino relationship. The
soloists improvise on a harmonic
basis derived by Brooks from his basic
thematic material. This chordal derivation is quite a bit more sophisticated
than the folk material would, by its
nature, imply, and it is only by the
occasional use of archaic rhythmic and
melodic devices that Brooks retains an
identification with the character of
his source of material. In this respect
the use of Cannonball Adderly as a
soloist has both advantages and disadvantages. There are times in which
he brings an element of blues, earthiness and pure funk to places which
would otherwise be constricted by their
suave sophistication (ie. Blues For
Christmas). On the other hand, there
are times when he seems incapable
of reaching beneath the surface of the
music to find the jauntily swinging
subtleties in which it abounds. I suspect also that the rather peculiar
rhythmic inflections employed by Adderley are not exactly what Brooks had
in mind when he wrote the Concerto.
Adderly tends to play in a kind
of suspension on top of the beat and
there are places (his solo directly
before the end of the first movement) in which his differences with
Galbraith and Hinton are more
than obvious. Art Farmer, however,
seems to have grasped Brooks' intentions. Having listened to the
record and subsequently studied the
score, I think that there is an
absolute unity of intent between the
lines written by Brooks and the solos
improvised by Farmer. Listen particularly to the lyric beauty of his line
in the slow section of The Loop; and
again to the amazing unity existing
between the theme of Rufus Playboy
ritornello and his solos which follow it. The rhythm section
plays excellently and Barry Galbraith
in particular once again demonstrates
his startling virtuosity as a section,
rhythm, single line, and
chording guitar player.
Brooks was, during the middle forties,
one of the best of a large number of
top-notch dance band arrangers. His
charts for the Randy Brooks, Les Brown
and Tommy Dorsey bands were beautiful examples of the rich sonorities to
be found within the structure of dance
band instrumentation. Yet one of the
major criticisms that can be made of
the Alabama Concerto is that it
lacks in tonal color. I can only attribute this to the fact that, in a
number of places, he seems to use his
instruments as if they were part of
larger sections. The opening
John Henry statement almost by its
nature suggests a brass section figure,
and in many places the interplay
between trumpet and alto are strongly
reminiscent of moving brass over a
chording sax section. There are
numerous other examples, although
there are certainly many sections
in which the four voices function satisfactorily in an integral relationship
with each other.
It seems likely that in this composition
Brooks had not adequately solved his
own tonal problems and as a result,
the harmonic texture which he has devised simply overpowers the instrumentation involved. And it may also
have provoked a tendency to
orchestrate with larger forms in mind.
I'm not suggesting that a small
group is necessarily limited to simple
tonal structures. Certainly the
Bartok string quartets are more
than adequate proof that such is not
the case. But I do feel that the
limitations involved in a form which
RAY BROWN:
"This is Ray Brown".
Verve MGV-8290.
Brown, bass Oscar Peterson, piano and
organ; Herb Ellis, guitar; Osie Johnson,
drums; Jerome Richardson, flute.
electronically generated tone, automatic
vibrato and unavoidable sameness
of attack prevent the musician from
getting his own voice into the
music. Oscar and a few other organists
have managed to make the thing
swing, but the main sound,
resonance, attack and release are
characteristics of the organ rather
than of the organist and aren't
particularly pleasing to my ear. I wonder
if an adjustable vibrato control such
as Milt Jackson uses on his vibes
would humanize this damn
machine a little?
They have recorded Ray well here,
but the illusion of the physical
position of the instruments in relation
to each other shifts radically as the
control-room balance is constantly
changed to favor whoever is soloing.
Since it is Ray's date he is given
precedence on each mixture,
but sometimes it sounds like the rest of
the musicians are being dollied in and
out of the adjoining room as they
continue to play. I realize that there
are difficulties involved in
recording this instrumentation, but
if the musicians can't balance
themselves so that each other's solos
are audible in the studio
there's little point in playing at all.
Ray displays enviable agility all over
the fingerboard and uses it in the
service of well-developed ideas most
of the time. One of the physical
problems of the bass that he hasn't
completely solved (who has?) is
the difficulty in sustaining the big
buttery sound he gets (when there's
time to pluck a string strongly and hold
it into the fingerboard long enough to
make the instrument resonate
completely) through rapid passages
where there isn't time to pluck all the
notes or to let each one ring before
shifting for the next one. His simple
figures sing with the same marvelous
sonority that is present in his four-four
lines, while many of his double and
triple-time figures have only about
half that sound. This creates enforced
dynamics that don't always coincide
with the structure of the phrase
he's playing.
Although Ray Brown is a superb bass
player and has a compatible group
of musicians to work with on this date,
it isn't altogether successful
either as a group effort or as a vehicle
for the display of his solo voice.
Much of the uneasiness I feel is due to
the sound of the Hammond organ. I
try not to get sidetracked by the
associations I have with that
instrument, skating rinks and soap
operas, but after Oscar Peterson's
introduction to The Nearness of You
I keep half expecting to hear a
handsome-voiced announcer telling me
about Helen Trent's latest unrequited
romance.
Aside from such distracting
images, the Hammond organ's
Oscar, Herb and Osie lay down
the time with energy and drive, but
never violently; these are big strong
men doing an honest day's work
with vigor and good humor. Jerome's
flute adds an attractive tonal color to
the bass and guitar but sounds
terribly fragile when matched with the
specific gravity of the organ, no
matter how evenly the control room
matches the volume levels.
Herb's strummed rhythm guitar blends
with the bass solos better than any
other accompaniment on the record,
and the sound he and Ray make
walking chords and lines together bowls
you along both rhythmically and
harmonically just the way you always
wanted to be bowled along.
Bill Crow
states thematic material and then
derives from it a complex vertical
harmonic structure as a basis for improvisation can easily result in tonal
stultification. There are too many
instances in which it is only
possible to produce a skelton of
the intended tonal effect. If Brooks
had given his soloists something more
in the way of a horizontal tonal basis,
and if his concerted sections had
been derived more from the basis of
the thematic groups implicit in
the material itself rather than from an
externally imposed vertically, this
would have been a more satisfactory
composition.
Although there are many aspects of this
record which do not quite come off,
it would be foolish to overlook the
importance of Brooks' intentions as a
composer. There is about this
music the air of a brilliant mentality
at work. In places it overwhelms
the music, uprooting it from
its sources and making it into a gem of
sophisticated logic.
This is both good and bad;
good for Brooks's development, but
not so good for this as a work of art.
The problem which he has set for
himself; that of finding a rapprochement between the root sources of
music and the incredibly intricate
techniques of contemporary composition
is a problem which must eventually be
met by anyone who considers himself
to be a serious composer. In "the
Alabama Concerto," Brooks has shown
that he is one of the few who are
grappling with the problem with all the
resources at their command.
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33
KENNY BURRELL: "Blue Lights,
Volume I". Blue Note 1596.
Louis Smith, trumpet; Junior Cook, tenor;
Tina Brooks, tenor; Kenny Burrell, guitar;
Duke Jordan, piano; Sam Jones, bass
Art Blakey, drums.
Yes Baby; Scotch Blues.
Bobby Timmons, piano for Jordan. Autumn
in New York. Burrell, Timmons, Jones and
Blakey. Caravan.
;
If someone were to ask me what had
happened to hard bop or funky jazz
since the early fifties, I would oniy have
to use this record.
Of course, the hard bop movement
owed little or nothing to the cool
school, but it actually owed only
slightly more to bop. If bop is taken
at its best in the work of Parker, I think
it is obvious that few, if any, of the
hard boppers have understood
the nature of Parker's rhythmic
contribution to jazz. Parker introduced
a dazzling rhythmic complexity which
brought an entirely new concept
of time into jazz. There was, certainly,
much more to the bop revolution,
but I do feel that this was the essence
of it. The hard boppers sought and
found their tradition in the groovy
world of rhythm and blues and gospel
music rather than in bop.
What resulted was music almost
entirely blues based and oriented, and
which consisted, and consists, of
strings of long solos derived from the
chords fed to the soloists with
regularity by the pianist. In and around
this movement certain remarkable
soloists have developed and their best
work is now concerned with a search
for individual form which is often
hampered, by their working in groups
where form is but a word. For hard
bop itself has fallen victim to
the monotony of formlessness implicit
in its earliest attempts. The average
hard bop soloist is only too content
to run the changes in the most
pedestrian way by now, and a concern
for melody and form is easily forgotten.
It is this sort of formlessness which
characterises this record and makes it,
with an important exception to be
noted later, such a trying
listening experience.
In Art Blakey we have the archetype
of the hard bop drummer. But on this
record he seems unwilling to enliven
things with the dynamism of which
he is capable. He coasts along
contentedly on a series of rolls and
accents which are, by this time, cliches.
Louis Smith is one of the latest in
the line of those trumpeters who
derive from Fats Navarro through
Clifford Brown. Smith, like Brown, lacks
Navarro's sense for congise
statement, and he seems quite
happy leaping from chord to chord
as though melody were an unheard of
thing. Yet, Smith still strikes me as
having a definite potential, most
obviously apparent in his good tone,
which he constantly stifles. The first
half of his solo on Caravan, for instance,
seems to augur well, but then he falls
back on running the chords again.
Cook and Brooks are almost
indistinguishable here. They descend,
roughly, from Young by Gordon,
Stitt, Coltrane, Gray, and God-knows-who
else. The worst that can be said of
them here is that they are dull,
and not in a new way. Brooks has
his best moments on Yas Baby, but his
playing on the rest of the tracks is
just desultory. I have heard Cook
in person when he struck me as a still
developing but interesting soloist. I
hope my recollection is the
accurate one, and that this session
only represents a bad day.
Burrell is a standard post-Christian
guitarist. He serves to remind one
of how little has been done with the
guitar since Charlie Christian, who is as
much misunderstood as Parker.
Autumn in New York is all Burrell and
belongs in a hip cocktail lounge,
not in a jazz album.
Sam Jones is a splendid bassist.
He is a bit too self-effacing, which is
too bad since he is a better soloist
than most bassists. Here he is
somewhat in the background, but one is
grateful to and for him.
Bobby Timmons is a promising soloist;
he is, obviously, not yet sure of what
he wants to say nor of how to say
it. But when he finds out the results
should be worth listening to. Here one
can hear Wilson, Silver, and several
others with an occasional
glimpse of the essentially lyrical
Timmons peering out.
Yet there is one good reason for owning
this record and that is that
appearances of Duke Jordan are so
rare. On Yes Baby his first solo is
such a model of melodic construction
and beauty that it makes all that
comes before and after worthwhile.
When he returns for a chorus after Sam
Jones, it is so beautiful that one
wants to laugh, cry, gesticulate, and
give copies of the record to all
one's friends. On his own Scotch Blues,
unfortunately, Jordan fails to develop
very much, although he is always
in there trying. The main mistake seems
to be his attempt at a chorda I
approach which is simply unsuitable
to his style. But the solos on
Yes Baby are there, and they will last
for a long, long time.
H. A. Woodfin
HARRY EDISON: "The Swinger".
Verve MG V-829S.
Edison, trumpet; Jimmy Forrest, tenor;
Jimmy Jones, piano; Freddie Greene, guitar;
Joe Benjamin, bass Charlie Persip, drums.
Pussy Willow, The Very Thought of You,
Nasty, The Strollers, Sunday, Fair Ground.
;
Edison's strength is in his perfect
time. His melodic concept isn't
ambitious, or strikingly original; he
works with short simple phrases,
doesn't build, and makes no vast
flights. Rhythmically, though, he's a
master. Those unstartling lines move so
well because each note is placed so
perfectly. Of his contemporaries on
trumpet, Roy Eldridge gives him
the best competition, but aside from
the superficial similarities (common to
most trumpeters of their generation)
they are entirely different. Roy is
a romantic, a builder of vast choruses.
When he makes it he is sublime,
but he doesn't always make it and he
suffers from a tendency to play
flat, waste notes, and scream when he
runs out of ideas. Sweets, though
he lacks Roy's melodic gifts on the
grand scale, is absolutely consistent,
safer than Roy because he takes fewer
risks. He can get a little dull (ai on
Fair Ground in this set), but he is never
in bad taste, never unrelaxed or out
of control. His phrasing is short and to
the point, conservative harmonically
and structurally, but spiced (at medium,
and up tempos) with rapid flaky
passages rarely longer than a bar. He
likes to end a long sustained note
with one of these. Sweets cuts
everybody at so simple a thing as
holding a note; his tone is so clear, and
within a certain range of tempos his
vibrato makes triplets, with the effect
that he rides the note rhythmically
without altering breathing or volume. He
also knows how to repeat a note or a
little phrase with a different rhythmic
emphasis each time. And there are
rests, plenty of rests. I think certain
younger players who run to long
strings of unrelieved eighths
or sixteenths could learn a lot about
rests from Edison. I've heard him
play better than on this album, but this
can almost always be said. His best
work here is on The Strollers, a medium
blues, and two magnificent breaks
he takes on Sunday, trading fours
with Forrest and Persip.
Forrest is a tenor who deserves more
attention than he seems to be getting.
He has technique to spare, and great
fluency, plays a lot of notes, but
not in the hammering style of the
Coltrane school. Even when honking a
note he avoids a harsh sound. His
tone is full, but his vibrato is light and
delicate, and tends to disappear at
fast tempos, except on the final note
of a phrase. He gets a warm, husky
sound, and uses a growl now and then.
His lines are flowing and balanced,
but, like Edison, he takes few
risks. (That sounds just a little too
patronizing; he doesn't play a dull note
in the set, and everything he
tries, he makes with ease.)
The excellent rhythm section
sounds as though it's been working
as a unit for months. Persip's
playing is beautiful, never loud; he uses
fine little snare figures at fast tempos
which really lift, and never clash
with the soloist. Benjamin is steady,
and provides nice, if standard, lines. I
have to look far to find any
complaint with the rhythm section;
if there is one, it's that Benjamin tends
to pinch off his notes a little, instead
of letting them sound full. Since
Greene is there to make the changes
explicit, Jones can afford to let
some by and concentrate on accenting
and taking care of the holes. His
acompaniment is clean and spare. He is
always in the right place and never
in the way, makes the change
and then shuts up. He is less effective
as a soloist, though; his'choruses
are uneventful, full of long,
functionless empty spaces during
which I keep waiting for something to
happen, and he likes those
Red Garland block voicings which I
would prefer left out of any pianist's
work. In' addition, that extreme
lightness of touch never varies, which
eliminates most of his chances for
shadings in dynamics, however subtle.
Except for Sunday and The Very
Thought of You, all the tunes are
originals by Edison, and all
blues, medium or fast. Recording
balance is very fine. Notes, by Nat
Hentoff, are gently anecdotal.
Maitland Edey
DUKE ELLINGTON: "Anatomy of a
Murder", music from the sound track of
the motion picture. Columbia CL 1360.
Main title (featuring Ray Nance and Jimmy
Hamilton); Flirtibird (Johnny Hodges); Way
Early Subtone (Russell Procope); Here to
Zero (Harry Carney & Paul Gonsalves); Low
Key Lightly (Nance); Happy Anatomy (Clark
Terry & Gonsalves); Midnight Indigo; Almost
Cried (Harold Baker); Sunswept Sunday
(Hamilton); Grace Valse Happy Anatomy (the
P. I. Five); Haupe" (Hodges); Upper and
Outest (Cat Anderson)
;
This collection of pieces from the
sound track of Otto Preminger's
Anatomy of a Murder is in several
respects disquieting for the long term
Ellington admirer. Although it is
superior to what most other jazz leaders
could do, at no point does it exhibit
the originality of "Such Sweet Thunder"
or any of his best work.
The invention is almost as prolific
as ever but does not seem to be so
typical of Ellington as usual.
This is largely because the music
departs from the highly distinctive
melodic and harmonic idioms he has
evolved. The thread of
commonplace that runs through most
of these pieces may be due to
his having to compromise in some
directions to meet the unaccustomed
requirements of film music. In the
American Weekly Entertainment Guide
of August 1, 1959 he is quoted
saying, "Music in pictures should say
something without being obviously
music, you know, and this was
all new to me." This might account
for the curiously negative effect some
of it produces when heard in
isolation away from the film. Perhaps
he is aware of its shortcomings
for he is also quoted as stating, "The
next one will be better. I'll try
another one and then I'll show them."
None of this, however, explains why
these performances are about the most
disinterested-sounding the band has
ever recorded. Execution is every
bit as good as one would expect but
the lack of enthusiasm is manifest on
most tracks in a heaviness that cannot
all be accounted for by the unusually
thick scoring sometimes adopted.
The music for the main title
begins somewhat rhetorically with
wa-wa fanfares and strong ensemble
chords, and with the drummer
hammering the off-beat relentlessly.
This resolves to an ostinato saxophone
figure with brass interjections.
Nance has a good wa-wa solo in the
form of a dialogue with these
interjections. Both ostinato and drumpounding are abandoned later when
Ellington takes one of those
slightly quizzical piano solos of his.
Flirtibird is an excellently composed
vehicle for Hodges and it is unfortunate
he does not take full advantage of it.
A lack of enthusiasm is again
suggested by his perfunctory phrases
and his stiff, almost hard tone is
reminiscent of Tab Smith's playing in
the 'forties (for example on Charlie
Shaver's Mountain Air and Rosetta on
Keynote). The score has four main
themes and this track introduces one
of them, a six-note phrase that is
antiphonally used here in three
dialogues. The first is between
Ellington, who states it several times
with variations, and the ensemble, who
provide a different response to each
of these. Hodges then takes
Ellington's place and supplies further
variations but keeping the idea
recognizable. Finally the band and
soloist reverse places. The same sixnote motive is employed in
Baker's feature, Almost Cried, but not
in such an interesting way.
Nonetheless this underrated trumpeter's
playing, with its unusually clean tone,
is always enjoyable to hear.
Another use of this theme is in the
introduction of Early Subtone. This has
a beautiful section by Procope's
clarinet but is otherwise chiefly
disconnected padding.
Hero to Zero, one of the best tracks,
is a good piece of atmospheric
writing. There is no central melodic
interest until the theme appears
towards the end, and most of the time
Carney's and Gonsalves's lines are
simply the most prominent thread in the
texture rather than the focal points.
Thematically related to this are
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Low Key Lightly and Haupe.
The former has a lengthy piano
introduction leading to some rather
graceful schmaltz from Nance's violin.
Haupe is another Hodges feature and
elicits much better playing from
him. His tone is softer and the melodic
lines are more sensitively shaped.
It is a less imaginative composition
than Flirtibird.
Happy Anatomy is a simple vehicle
for improvisation with solos by
Gonsalves and Terry. The backgrounds
are particularly good, especially the
trumpets behind Gonsalves; but
the drummer is too heavy again. Terry's
contribution is easily the best solo
on the disc. Midnight Indigo opens with
the beautiful combinations of
xylophone, string bass and Carney's
bass clarinet leading to a dialogue
between piano and xylophone. There are
some rich, quietly sustained chords
on the horns and at moments the
delicacy of texture is worthy of such
pieces at the 1940 Dusk. Altogether a
beautiful piece that no other jazz
musician would have had the
refinement of imagination to carry
out successfully.
Sunswept Sunday is a stodgy non-jazz
piece appropriately featuring Jimmy
Hamilton. Within the context of
film music it is no criticism to state this
is not jazz and it clearly had to be
included in this Ip, but it is not good
material for the Ellington band.
Still less suitable is Grace Valse, a
sadly conventional piece of heavy 'light'
music. Upper and Outest is patched
together from the forgoing items,
ostinato figure, six-note theme, heavy
drumming and all. It is an
unpalatable rehash. Cat Anderson
makes his appearance towards the end
of this piece and the end of this
review is perhaps the place to disagree
with the views expressed on him
when the last Ellington disc
was reviewed here (The Jazz Review,
May 1959). I wonder if those who think
Anderson is not a jazz musician
know his solos on Jam with Sam, Cat
Walk, or Stompy Jones. Presumably not.
Max Harrison
"BENNY GOLSON and tho
Philadelphians". United Artists
UAL 4020.
Benny Golson, tenor sax-, Lee Morgan,
trumpet; Ray Bryant, piano; Percy Heath,
bass; Philly Joe Jones, drums;
You're Not the Kind; Blues on My Mind-,
Stablemates; Thursday's Theme; An Afternoon
in Paris; Calgary.
Benny Golson is one of my favorite
writers and one of the most melodic
around. He has a fine sense of harmonic
structure, but he doesn't let melody
suffer because of the harmony. As
a tenor player, he gets a good big sound
on his horn. I would sometimes like
to hear a more simple solo line
from him; if he did that, I think that
his phrases with multitudes of
notes wouldn't suffer from a lack
of contrast.
I have heard Lucky Thompson called a
major influence on Benny, but I
would say Don Byas was, more than
Lucky. By now, Benny has developed in
his scales to a point of great harmonic
freedom—in the direction of the
broadening begun by Sonny Rollins and
then carried on by Coltrane.
Lee Morgan is the best trumpet player
for his age I have heard; he never
ceases to amaze me with his ability.
Lee does remind me of Clifford Brown
sometimes, although I didn't hear
Brownie when he was that young. For
actually trying to play the trumpet,
Lee deserves a lot of credit. There are
some things that he doesn't play
as cleanly as he seems to want to, but
he is not afraid to make a mistake.
I like his tone and his openness
a great deal, especially in the lower
register. I expect and hope that
he will continue the way he is going,
which seems to be to use more
thoughtfulness and clarity in
his playing and not to play a phrase
just to see if he can do it.
I have always admired Ray Bryant's
piano, but on his solos here he gives me
the feeling of a man trying to get out
from under the drummer.
Percy Heath is largely responsible for
the kind of bass playing that
usually goes with the style of playing
on this record; that is with the style you
usually hear in the East I think that
it's a good way to play bass. But
I would have liked to hear him more
clearly than I did on this record. I think
it's the engineer's fault. Percy is not
a loud bass player but a beautiful one,
and his work can be drowned by
too much turbulance from the rest of
the rhythm section.
Philly Joe Jones is one of my favorite
drummers to hear, but I wish there
were a way that drummers of his
capabilities could be exposed without
hampering the possibilities for
subtlety and contrast in volume of the
other players. In a big band, I don't
think this problem would exist,
but in small groups I think it does. So
far it has been overcome in quintets
by having the drummer lay out
occasionally, which I think is a good
idea. Of course if a drummer can
play, he wants to play the best he can
at all times. But sometimes what is
best to him seems a little to strong
for the other members of a group;
it can force them to struggle to be
heard, to stay on top.
The recording generally represents a
certain style which has been called
"Hard bop" "East Coast" etc. It
is a mixture of things from several eras,
actually, but by now it is a tradition
in itself. The major sources of the style
are Brownie, Miles, Horace, Rollins,
Coltrane, Blakey, Max, Philly Joe,
Percy Heath, and a few others. They are
all individuals who have their own
abilities, and who are not afraid to do
things a bit differently. Many have
been strengthened by the work these
men did, but there is a danger of
conformity or complacency in this style
and collectively in the various groups
who play it. Players cannot afford to
settle for only the proven and accepted
in any style of jazz, or the style will
just stop developing, as "Dixieland" did.
On this Ip, the men were striving, and
challenging themselves, but
I don't hear any intent to do anything
different with the style itself. But
for what it is, it is a good record.
Art Farmer
BILLIE HOLIDAY: "Songs for Distingue
Lovers". Verve MGV-8257.
Billie Holiday, Vocals; Harry Edison, trumpet;
Ben Webster, tenor saxophone; Jimmy Rowles,
piano; Barney Kessel, guitar; Red Mitchell,
bass; Alvin Stoller, drums.
Personnel (not listed on jacket)
Day In Day Out; A Foggy Day; Stars Fell on
Alabama; One For My Baby; Just One of These
Things; I Didn't Know What Time It Was.
On too many of her last albums Billie
was not accompanied by the kind of
group she deserved; it was usually
a case of singer versus everybody else:
Billie wearily working her way through
a swamp which, as often as not,
included strings and a harp.
This album is an exception. Billie
was backed here by a four-piece
rhythm section and two horns: trumpet
and tenor. Norman Granz has for some
reason left the personnel unmentioned, and from the outside, the
album looks just like one of those
string-section jobs aimed at the pop
public. Granz's neglect seems strange,
considering that the players have
plenty of solo space, in some cases
almost as much as Billie herself,
and particularly strange when you
put the record on and realize that
the horns are Harry Edison and Ben
Webster (this is what my ear says; I
won't get hung-up making a guess
at the others, who are not so obvious).
There are six tracks, all fairly long.
The tunes are standards, slow or
medium in tempo.
Billie's singing varies in quality
throughout the set. It varies from
chorus to chorus, and sometimes even
from bar to bar, so certain tracks
can't be selected as more worthy or
less worthy than others. Fine phrases
and inflections occur alongside phrases
which are not so fine—phrases
which seem shadows or caricatures of
what Billie could really do. Those
once unutterably poignant touches,
a slight hesitation hitting a note, a
perfect use of vibrato (none at all on
the beginning of a note, then widening
out), bending a note a little to break
your heart, these became too often
exaggerated, and sound a little
affected. She sometimes liked to wait
a bit too long befdre coming in on
a phrase, then has to rush a few
words to catch up. A singer singing
words can't afford to be as liberal
with rests as somebody playing a
horn unless some words are left out.
She had become fond of a few gimmicks, for instance a low, hoarse,
Louis-like growl which is no part of
her natural style. Worst of all, that
perfect vibrato in places is a little
sloppy, a little too wobbly. These are the
faults. The virtues are what they
always were, only a little diluted here
and there. She still could hit you with
a fine note or a moving phrase, and
I would far rather listen to Billie today
than any other singer in the idiom,
any singer other than a folk-blues or
gospel singer. She was still the most
moving singer of ballads, and she made
it now and then on this album as she
should have.
The rhythm section is a pretty good
one, especially the bass and drums.
Both the pianist and the guitarist tend
to drive a little hard; the pianist, when
comping, pushes in a Peterson-like style
which wasn't right for Billie, though
the horns can use it properly. Billie
needed someone more relaxed or maybe
even more old-fashioned; of the modern
pianists, a Hank Jones would have fit
better. The guitarist, whoever he is,
is not right for this session. He would
have contributed a great deal by
sticking to an even, mellow four, but
he throwns in annoying little blips too
often, and sometimes tries playing lines
under Billie.
Much of the album's strength is in
Edison and Webster. Edison is better
soloing than playing behind Billie since
he doesn't fit his phrases to hers, and
distracts rather than contributes. His
solos are, as usual, clean, uncomplicated, and swinging, but blowing
behind a singer is a special art.
If Edison has it, he doesn't exercise
it here.
Webster, on the other hand, has it
and exercises it. He rolls long, oblique
lines out under Billie's voice, sounding
like the whole Ellington sax section
of Webster days. The lines he plays
here sound very similar (in style,
not in choice of notes) to some
that Ellington scored for that section;
I don't know which one learned from
the other. A good example here is
on Day In, Day Out; when Webster
came in behind Billie the whole
character of the performance changed.
He provided a tremendous lift. Solo,
he seems to play fewer notes than he
once did, and those notes are less
even, accented with more care and
variety. Webster, more than any other
tenor, can change his tone to fit his
needs; he can be soft or harsh at
the same volume. The finest moments
in the album for me, are when he
is blowing.
Maitland Edey
THE MASTERSOUNDS: "Ballads and
Blues". World Pacific WP-1260.
Buddy Montgomery, vibes; Richie Crabtree,
V E E
J A Y
J A Z Z
piano; Monk Montgomery, electric bass
Benny Barth, drums.
;
Blues Medley (Bluesology, Purple
Sounds, Fontessa), Heidi, Little Stevie,
Solar, How Deep Is the Ocean, Monk's
Ballard, Mint Julep, The Champ.
This is one of those records which
contain a few short passages of
beauty and emotion surrounded by
choruses of cliche-ridden, carefully
stylish, mechanical playing.
Aside from the general complaint, I
find that the group has two specific
failings:
1) They don't play well together,
that is, as a cohesive unit.
2) They sound superficially very much
like either the Modern Jazz Quartet
(on blues and up originals) or like
the early Shearing quintet (on the
lusher ballads). The MJQ influence
is the stronger, evident in some of
the writing and particularly in the
playing of Buddy Montgomery, who
is the most faithful (and best) imitator
of Milt Jackson I've ever heard.
There is certainly nothing inherently
wrong with one group trying to sound
like another; the trouble in this
case is that the Mastersounds fall
so far short of their models. In
addition, they somehow manage to give
the impression, correct or incorrect,
that they aim at the MJQ style, not
because it's that natural inevitable
one for them, but because it happens
to be in fashion at the moment. Only
Buddy Montgomery never plays a
pretentious or silly phrase. Given his
natural Jackson-based style, it might
seem understandable to work towards
an MJQ-like group style. But that
style is a very individual one, so
much so that it even tends to get a
little precious sometimes. It's not a
style very many vibes-piano-bass-drums
quartets would have evolved naturally,
or would feel really comfortable working in. Trying to do so, the Mastersounds end up sounding just a little
false.
The first failing, that they don't play
well together, seems to be
predominantly Richie Crabtree's
problem. Though his ballad chording
under Buddy Montgomery is capable
enough, he tends to fall apart comping
on blues or anything medium or fast.
It's not a technical difficulty; it's
just that he hasn't learned to put
down an accompaniment that supports,
rather than trips, a soloist. He
distracts. He drops things in the
wrong places and gets in the way,
giving the group an unbalanced,
seasick sound, confused and out of
control, very different from the liquid
clarity of the MJQ ensemble.
Benny Barth is not a particularly
resourceful drummer. He seems to be
Walter Perkins' MJT + 3
VJLP 1013 & SR 1013
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Adderley, Wynton Kelly, Philly Joe
Jones, Freddie Hubbard, Jimmy Cobb
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at a loss as to what to do,
particularly on the middle tempos,
where he sounds chunky rather than
flowing. A clever drummer can
contribute a powerful sense of form
by building a different sound for each
soloist, varying his choruses, preparing
entrances, etc. Barth hasn't moved in
this direction at all. Instead he seem
to rely on a stock of standard ideas
and techniques, not always using
them when needed or fitting. The
worst and most obvious of these is
a kind of abortive shuffle rhythm.
The two Montgomerys are in a different
class. Buddy, as noted, is based on
Milt Jackson; the grace notes, the
bending of phrases, the fragile hesitations are all very much like Jackson's.
Montgomery's touch is lighter, and he
avoids Jackson's only ugly idiosyncrasy: that slow, grinding, electronic
vibrato on ballads. His phrasing is
delicate and full of blues. Monk
Montgomery is steady and has
some good lines. He tends to favor
large leaps in unexpected places.
The sound of his instrument, electric
bass, is very distinctive; the
notes tend to carry longer and
don't fade as fast. Whether you
like it or not is a matter of taste. The
instrument's great advantage is that
it is fretted, so the player has no
pitch trouble; he is never slightly
sharp or flat.
There are three ballads, How Deep
Is the Ocean, Monk's Ballad (by
Monk Montgomery), and Heidi (by
Crabtree). How Deep is treated conservatively; Buddy gets off several
lovely, soaring lines, otherwise
sticks closely to melddy and
embellishment. Monk's Ballad begins
with an introductory piano quote
from the Warsaw Concerto or something
reminiscent of it. I would suspect
that this was a joke, except that
the rest of the track is quite sober
and straight-faced; it's one of those
things which serve to alienate the
most patient listener. The ballad has
an original and moving bridge,
though, handled by Buddy with
feeling. Heidi has a piano solo showing
a Billy Taylor influence in places.
Mint Julep is the heartbreaker of
the set. It's a twelve-bar blues
with a bridge, written by Rudolph
Toombes. As written, the first eight
bars have a syncopated, almost Spanish
bass line played unison by piano
and bass, over which Buddy has a
light, funky melody line. The last four
and the bridge use a walking bass
and Crabtree's usual comping. It's a
heartbreaker because those first eight
bars, light and balanced, promise so
much emotionally, and the promise
isn't kept. For a moment the
Mastersounds almost touch the
eternal blues; but then, after the
first eight bars, Crabtree becomes
fashionably crisp and cute, and Barth
comes down, chunk, chunk, every two
and four. Buddy solos well; he would
have been unobstructed if Crabtree
had sat out.
Of the remaining tracks, The Champ,
Little Stevie, and the Bluesology
part of the blues medley are the
most interesting. The Champ has an
introduction by Barth; he brings in
the theme with a Salt Peanuts quote.
They get a good Dizzy strut. Buddy
has two choruses without piano,
but doesn't sound quite comfortable
at the tempo. Crabtree riffs under
him for the rest of the solo, providing
obstacles rather than support.
Crabtree's own solo is unpretentious,
may be his best on the album.
There is almost a false start on
Bluesology, and five fine choruses of
Buddy with the rhythm section under
control. The rest of the medley is
painful. Little Stevie, written by Monk
Montgomery, has pleasing minor
resolutions; it shows a strong John
Lewis influence. First Monk then
Buddy state the theme. Monk's next
solo begins very well, but even one
of the Montgomerys fails at last;
he gives us, in his second chorus a
straight dose of Istambul, Not
Constantinople. After beautiful blue
Buddy and fair Crabtree (always
stylish, never committed emotionally),
there is an abrupt change of tone.
Barth sets up a crisp cymbal
pattern, Monk enters, John Lewis
appears, smiling, in the control room
window, Buddy and Crabtree enter,
and we are in the middle of one
of those baroque-flavored things.
Maitland Edey
STUFF SMITH: "Sweet swingin' Stuff".
20th Fox 3008.
Smith, violin; John Letman, trumpet;
James Jones, piano-, George Duvivier,
bass; Denzil Best, drums.
La Cinquintaine, 0 Promise Me, To a
Wild Rose, I Love You Truly, Humoresque,
Home on the Range, Mighty Lak a Rose,
A Bird in a Gilded Cage, Hearts and
Flowers, Medley: Buffalo Gals—On the
Banks of the Wabash; Blue Tail Fly,
Gypsy Love Song. After the Ball.
Stuff both plays and sings here
with about equal space and billing.
His singing is deeply offensive:
cynical, unmusical performances based
on the cheapest aspects of Louis'
vocal style. His playing, while far
more pleasant than his singing, leaves
me totally unmoved. His technique
is inadequate; his pitch is erratic,
sometimes as much as a quarter-tone
off; his vibrato is coarse and
clumsy, a relic of what some people
in the entertainment business used
to think was a hot jazz sound.
Most annoying is his tendency to
slip his finger up a string a whole
fifth at the end of a phrase; he
can't play a chorus without throwing
in this gimmick. It is precisely the
same device that the man uses
in the Hot Canary. Stuff swings well
on rare brief phrases, but tends to
ruin any momentum with a few badly
placed notes at the end. For his own
sake, this set should not have been
issued.
He is accompanied by John Letman,
an unimaginative edition of some of
Roy Eldridge's less successful work,
and by an unjustly magnificent
rhythm section: Jimmy Jones, George
Duvivier, and Denzil Best. Jones
has a few choruses, none particularly
memorable, but each standing out
like a little oasis. The choice of
tunes helps no one very much.
Maitland Edey
JIMMY AND MAMA YANCEY:
"Pure Blues". Atlantic 1283.
Yancey, piano; Israel Crosby, bass.
Mournful Blues; Yancey Special;
How Long Blues; Yancey's Bugle Call-, 35th
and Dearborn; Shave 'em Dry; Salute to
Pinetop.
Estelle 'Mama" Yancey, vocal; Jimmy
Yancey, piano; Israel Crosby, bass.
Make Me a Pallet on the Floor; Four
O'clock Blues; Monkey Woman Blues;
Santa Fe Blues; How Long Blues.
Just one measure. That's all it takes
for anyone who has nosed into the
broad bays, the tidewater and the
headwaters, searching for the
genuine and the spurious examples
of this thing called jazz, to feel the
presence of a master of the jazz beat,
the jazz attack (inflection), using
only that piano technique which is
necessary to the realization of
the Yancey ideas. Sure it's a self-taught
technique that we have here (in
Mournful Blues one of his feet reposes
on the pedal, presenting us with a
blues Cathedral Engloutie), but his
ideas are honestly drawn from his
background. That environment included
the rail center of Chicago, the
plaintive hymn-like phrases made out
of tremoloed sixth (Mournful), coupled
with grace-noted triads that rock with
the fervor of a devout religious believer, and, perhaps most of all, the
art of creating primary and secondary
themes and phrases culled from Yancey's long experience as buck-and-wing
dancer, and his subsequent avocation
as pianist for countless Chicago houserent parties where he was sure to be
aware of original tap-dance variations.
Bugle Call exemplifies these tap-dance
figures as they spill out of his right
hand, while the left pursues a
Charleston bass with some boogie
woogie patterns.
It is the impact of one hand against
the other that gives Yancey's playing
a real holographic character, as may
be discerned by comparing Meade
Lux Lewis' Decca version of the
Yancey Special with this one.
Yancey's right hand phrases in 12/8
time, with all of its attendant
possibilities of triplets, triplet
syncopations, grace-noted triplets,
and fragments of tied triplets.
Simultaneous rhythmic effort is being
executed by his unerring left hand
in 4/4 time (with all of its habanera,
Charleston figures and tied notes),
and vain indeed are the strivings of
imitators who try to achieve Yancey's
gift of ambidextrous phrasing gift
in a hurry. His apt pupil Meade Lux
did absorb some of what Yancey
had to offer, for one finds the same
cross-rhythms of the composer's
Yancey Special in the Old Paramount
version of Honky Tonk Train Blues by
Lux, but in most of the latter's work
one feels the 4/4 drive without the
equal amounts of 12/8 and I think
that there you have Yancey's signal
contribution. My use of this adjective
is dictated by the fact that many
of these blues are train blues,
perhaps dictated proximity to the
LaSalle St. station. The daily dinning
into one's consciousness of the sounds
of driving rods, crossing gates,
whistles, and Westinghouse valve gear,
coupled with the temptation of the
rails as a means of escape from
daily social and economic problems,
made the train.blues a natural product
of the imagination. 35th & Dearborn,
with its wonderfully paced bass
boogie, legato, and its 12/8 gracenoted whistle effects, is one of the
more poignant ones: the listener can
actually hear the big Mikado chuffing
along easily down the Rock Island
line.
Part of the distinctive holograph
that is Yancey's lies in his touch,
and in the nuances of his keyboard
attack. Not only does he underline
the main idea, but he also sub-titles
the subordinate fill-in figures. To get
some idea of his subtlety at nuance,
one has only to turn to some train
blues by his "students," Cripple
Clarence Lofton and Meade Lux Lewis.
Compared to their highly rhythmical
but mechanical drive, Jimmy's raggedy
blues utterances are evoked with
poetic feeling. In Mournful there is
the homely, rooted domesticity that
has been felt by Charles Ives and
Virgil Thomson; on side 2 it is further
borne out by Mama Yancey, her
husband's piano and the clipped
bass of Israel Crosby. Monkey Woman
brings forth Mama's sing-song Negro
sprechstimme, upbraiding another
woman, while How Long finds her
plaintive, re-iterative whine expounding
on her capacity for absorbing marital
trouble. Still another blues of
complaint, Four O'clock, has the
chastising voice of the dutiful wife
in strict observance of moral protocol.
Crosby and Yancey deftly brush in
the background here, softly delineating
the coming home at four in the
morning in light accompaniment,
so that the slightly spurned woman
will hear her man come in.
Estella Yancey does well with the
"mistreated" role.
Jimmy shares the glory of Santa Fe,
with his opening chorus, full of
syncopated devises that depict the
quiet coasting rhythms of a Santa Fe
train, as he does in the first chorus
of Make Me a Pallet. In slurring
a note down from the minor third
to the tonic, and cutting the tonic off
extremely short, Mama employs a
Negro blues characteristic that is
not only effective emotionally, but
also allows the rhythmic
accompaniment to shine through.
Although the performances themselves
are not quite the match of their
Session, Solo-Art and Victor records
made ten to twelve years before
these, all of the old artistry is
there, and with a bit more fidelity.
Charles Payne Rogers
"MODERN JAZZ CONCERT: Six Compositions commissioned by the 1957
Brandeis University Festival of the
Arts". Columbia WL 127.
Personnel: Hal McKusick and John La
Porta, saxes; Louis Mucci and Art Farmer,
trumpets; Jimmy Knepper, trombone;
Robert DiDomenica, flute; Manuel Zegler,
bassoon; Bill Evans, piano; Teddy Charles,
vibes; Joe Benjamin, bass,- Margaret Ross,
harp; James Buffington, French horn Barry
Galbraith, guitar; Teddy Sommer, drums.
George Russell, All About Rosie; Harold
Shapero, On Green Mountain (Chaconne after
Monteverdi); Jimmy Giuffre, Suspensions;
Charlie Mingus, Revelations; Milton Babbitt,
All Set; Gunther Schuller, Transformation.
;
One of the remarkable things about
the Brandeis Jazz Concert recording is
that it ever took place at all. As
Gunther Schuller mentions in his liner
notes, it could not have taken place
ten years ago. In that short period the
acceptance of jazz as an art by the
public and musicians alike has been
so rapid that composers and
performers of this calibre have been
able to work and develop in an
increasingly favorable climate of
opinion. We are still in the earliest of
beginnings, but at least we are on
the way, and I fervently hope that
Columbia will continue to serve as
an example of the good work that
can be done by a large corporation.
Much has been said (and will be said)
about George Russell's Lydian System
of Tonal Organization, but of course
is not the technique which is
important to the audience. What does
matter is that Russell is able to
use his system to produce an
amazing variety of tonal color. Listen
to the second movement of All About
Rosie, where he displays a masterful
control of his material, moving
through a variety of shifting tonal
areas, yet always retaining the essence
of blues feeling. And again in the
opening of the up-tempo third
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movement where changing instrumental
sounds evolve into a rocking Basie-like
swing.
Russell's system is also important in
that he can give such a good
improvisational basis to his soloists.
Bill Evans' pano solo in the third
movement is an unsurpassed example
of the unity that can exist between
the composed and improvisational
sections of a piece of music. It is
also a remarkable testament to the
developing skills of this influential
young pianist.
Harold Shapero's On Green Mountain
is not only an 'unforgiveable pun' on
the name of Monteverdi, but possibly
also an unforgiveable joke at the
expense of jazz composition. I can't
agree with Gunther Schuller's
description of this work as an
"improvisation by jazz musicians on
'classical' thematic and harmonic
material." Although the first and last
sections, which surround the
improvisations, are interesting examples
of what a contemporary composer can
do with a somewhat archaic form, the
center section is simply an AABA
up-tempo blowing episode. Shapero has
made it more difficult for his soloists
by insisting that the trumpet and
trombone adhere closely to a banal
Monteverdi theme (which is faintly
reminiscent of the 'Anvil Chorus') in
the first part of their solos. It has
always seemed to me that the jazz
composer must be more concerned
with the idea of giving the improvisor
free rein than with the imposition of
more restrictions. Shapero's reasons
for violating the soloists' freedom
just don't seem to be justified by
the material that he presents
them with.
Suspensions, the Jimmy Giuffre work,
improves with each listening. It is
composed throughout, with no
improvisation, but Guiffre has managed
to overcome some of the difficulties
of our inadequate notation system to
project, at times, the feelings of a
completely integrated group effort. The
composition consists of three basic
sections organized into a general ABA
relationship. The first and last sections
make extensive use of a whole tone
and minor third accompaniment figure
used beneath a blues-tinged melodic
line. In the center section he introduces
a 5/4 ostinato bass and then proceeds
to build up steam with a rocking 4/4
theme swinging through the top
instruments. The original thematic germ
is then recapitulated to close the
composition. Giuffre's strength as an
orchestrator is abundantly in evidence
and in places the tonal color which
he achieves is as striking as anything
on the album.
Despite the fact that Charlie Mingus'
Revelations has a recognizably
orthodox external form, like much of
his work it sometimes imparts the
feeling of a stream-of-conciousness
technique. He is an naturalistic
composer and is often concerned with
form and technique only as adjuncts
to the emotional development of his
work. At times this is a very great
strength indeed, as in the truly moving
first section of this work. Listen in
particular to the lovely passage for
horn and bass, and again to the
almost Broadway-folksy section which
immediately follows it. Mingus is a
composer who (unlike so many others)
feels through his fingers. It is a rare
attribute.
The next section, a group improvisation,
is not as successful as one might
desire, although it is worth probing
through the cacophony to pick up the
really humorous trombone work of
Jimmy Knepper. Following this is a
recapitulation and, according to
Schuller, an improvised ending. The
ending is an excellent example (in
contrast to the earlier group effort)
of what such a method can achieve
among empathetic musicians.
If Milton Babbitt's composition All Set
is to be considered a jazz work then
it must be done so primarily because
it is performed by jazz musicians. In
this sense, perhaps, we may have
come full circle, in that one of the
traditional strengths of jazz has been
embodied in the ability of the
individual musician to modify and
interpret the composed music in a
manner which he feels best satisfies
his own artistic intentions. The work
is uncompromising and difficult, both
to perform and to hear. Although he
makes extensive use of the
fragmented serial composition
technique which is so influential
among the younger "classical"
composers, Babbitt has been careful
to avoid some of the difficulties which
have plagued "serious" composers when
they have attempted to write jazz.
Instead of adhering to the conception
which views jazz as an imperfect
combination of the diametrically
opposed elements of vertical melodyharmony and horizontal rhythm, he has
permitted his thematic groups to
employ rhythms which are implicit
in their nature. Thus the significance
of each note as a part of an organic
musical framework is emphasized, and
the rhythmic impetus which is derived
is implied by the most forceful
natural means. There are, as Schuller
notes, 'many rare and subtle tonal
experiences' in this music, and
repeated listening will bring forth
more.
Although Gunther Schuller's
Transformations is a competent,
interestingly conceived work, I can't
agree that it even begins to satisfy
the problem which he has set for
himself (i.e. "the amalgamation of
jazz and classical music"). What
does happen is a kind of
'transformation' from a conventionally
composed section to an improvised
episode, and, finally, a juxtaposition
of the two. In most cases, however,
the two remain separate entities and
never really give a complete feeling
of integration. What is more important,
I think, is the means and methods
which Schuller has used. He is very
nearly on the verge of making a
breakthrough to a point where
composing techniques formerly
associated with "classical" music will
ue used to project jazz works. Thus
both jazz and "classical" music will
have the common goal of producing an
"art music" unlimited by parochial
considerations.
Let's hope that the visionary foresight
of the Brandeis Festival sponsors will
continue to influence future promoters
of such events. Under such benign
conditions and with the exciting
stimulus thereby offered, jazz cannot
help but prosper, develop
and grow.
Don Heckman
HANK MOBLEY, BILL ROOT, CURTIS
FULLER, LEE MORGAN: "Another
Monday Night at Birdland".
Roulette R-52022.
Mohley, tenor sax Billy Root, tenor sax; Curtis
Fuller, trombone; Lee Morgan, trumpet; Specs
Wright, drums; Ray Bryant, piano; Tommy
Bryant, bass.
It's You Or No One; Jamph; Nutville; Wee.
;
By far the most immediate of
the jazzman's barnful of problems
is that of having to produce his art
daily between certain hours at certain
places for combinations of people
that are shuffled before him like
a worn-out pack of cards. Whether
he is in the mood mentally or
physically to create, or whether the
surroundings are conducive to his
act of creation, is of importance
to no one save the jazzman himself—
and, of course, he doesn't count.
The classical musician has weeks to
practice for a concert, or has at
least the assurance of knowing he
can depend on a score written by
someone else. The painter, if
dissatisfied, can toss a picture aside
and begin again, or paint over the
old. And the working schedule of
the painter or classical musician is
more or less up to him.
In jazz alone of all the arts, the
artist is required to produce by a
clock, in an on-again, off-again
assembly-line procedure, before
audiences which are, to say the
least, unspeakably rude. And it is
in jazz alone, too, that the artist,
like a vending machine, must promptly
and efficiently eject the brand of
packaged art for which the buying
audience has exchanged its coins.
And not to be overlooked is the
atmosphere in which most of jazz is
manufactured (and in which someone
like Bach would have had a lovely
time concocting instant fugues):
dreary cubicles of depression, housing
an inattentive conglomeration of
individuals who fill the spaces not
taken up by transient barmaids.
Although a disturbing number of
patrons of jazz clubs are present for
purposes other than hearing jazz,
the jazz artist's dilemma is further
heightened by the fact that occasionally jazz lovers do happen to be quietly
and inconspicuously seated amidst
the attending menagerie and hang
on to every note played. So that while
the jazzman may be discouraged,
even disgusted, by the average club
audience, he cannot afford to let
down his musical standards because
of it—not just out of respect to
the chance visit of a perceptive
and interested critic, but out of
respect to himself and his reputation
which is in the hands of these
chance visitors: the fan who passes
the word along orally, the critic
who does so in print. And, unlike
the painter, the jazzman is not
able to throw a bad solo on his
private scrap heap; if he plays badly,
he does it in public.
This problem came to mind as
I listened to "Another Monday Night
at Birdland." I was not particularly
impressed with the album, the playing
was so loose it failed to captivate
me and hold me either by melodic
inspiration or by technical display.
And yet, to anyone who has been to
Birdland and taken in its atmosphere
himself, it would be a wonder if
the results on this album has been
otherwise, for at Birdland, the
problem discussed in the preceding
paragraphs is operating full blast.
In such an environment, all one
can do is blow, and that is what
the musicians do here. This Monday
night group, in its second such
recorded venture, sounds as if
"Another Monday Night at Birdland"
took place on the same Monday
night as the first "Monday Night
at Birdland." If this looks redundant
on paper, then it is because in both
albums the group sounds pretty much
that way, too.
In person this Monday night session
would entertain painlessly and
spiritedly for the duration of the
sets, and would give the added
privilege of watching the musicians
in a live performance. Away from
the club musical attention would be
focused elsewhere. Possibly that is
the trouble with this Birdland album-,
once heard, one has no desire to
hear it again.
Returning to the problem, one
wonders how these musicians could
possibly turn out any music of
originality, inspiration, innovation or
lyricism under the induced labor
of recorded club sets or youstaillplay-at-10-o'clock-sharp-on-Monday
jam sessions. Not that good music
has not and will not come from
clubs, but to capture it on a
recording would involve nightly vigils
with a tape recorder for enough
nights to catch a really good one—
the rare occasion when musicians and
listeners respond to each other and
the music falls almost fatalistically
into place. Too often, albums
arbitrarily recorded on-the-spot were
not cut on one of these good
nights.
Though many musicians prefer the
relaxation of a club, despite its
handicaps, to the formality of concerts
or the chill of recording studios,
the club—its audiences and working
conditions—is one of the dilemmas
of jazz as a way of art, and the
appearance of this Birdland album
somehow reveals the problem musically
within the circumference of a twelve
inch Ip.
Mimi Clar
Available for the first time!
THE MARSHALL BROWN YOUTH BAND
LIBRARY OF ORCHESTRATIONS "S
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
0
•
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"THE JAZZ SOUL OF P0RGY AN0
BESS", Conducted, Orchestrated and
Arranged by Bill Potts. United Artists
UAL 4032.
Art Farmer, Harry Edison, Bernie Glow, Markie
Markowitz, Charlie Shavers, trumpets; Bob
Brookmeyer, Frank Rehak, Jimmy Cleveland,
Earl Swope, Rod Levitt, trombones; Sol
Schlinger, baritone sax Zoot Sims, AI Conn,
tenors; Phil Woods, Gene Quill, altos; Herbie
Powell, guitar; Charlie Persip, drums; Bill
Evans, piano; George Duvivier, bass.
Summertime; A Woman Is A Sometime Thing;
My Man's Gone Now It Takes A Long Pull
to Get There; I Got Plenty 0' Nuttin'; Bess,
You Is My Woman; It Ain't Necessarily So
Medly (Prayer; Strawberries; Honey Man; Crab
Man); I Loves You, Porgy; Clara, Clara; There's
A Boat Dat's Leavin' Soon For New York;
Oh Bess, Oh Where's My Bess; Oh Lawd,
I'm On My Way.
;
;
;
The only recorded version which could,
by any valid definition of the word,
be called the "jazz soul" of Porgy
And Bess would have to be the
Evans-Davis collaboration on
Columbia. Despite trjis, the
performance of this interpretation is
outstanding. Although the band is
composed primarily of the same studio
men who make up most of the New
York recording sessions, they play here
with a crackling authority that is
rare in bands that have not been
together for a long time.
Potts' arrangements are, at times,
exceptionally skillful examples of
orchestration, chock-full of the best
professional jazz techniques. He uses
his devices brashly and confidently,
and there is no question of his
ability to project a feeling to his
musicians which urges them into
roaring excitement. The trouble is that
the emotional impact is surface, and
very little is stated by implication. The
passion of the score is never
touched except in the most superficial
by Marshall Brown
DATELINE NEWPORT
VELVET GLOVES
ROCK BOTTOM
CHA, CHA, CHA, FOR JUDY
SOLID BLUE
COPLEY SQUARE
CINNAMON KISSES
CERULEAN BLUE
by John La Porta
TWO BY TWO
WELCOME BACK, JACK
EARLY DUES
DANCE BAND WARM UPS
by Ernie Wilkins
FAST COMPANY
by William Russo
THE DANCING PUPPET
by Fred Karlin
NIGHT CAP
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Instrumentation: 5 saxophones, A trumpets, 4 trombones, piano, bass, guitar, drums and conductor's
score, orchestrations may be played with the
following minimum instrumentation: 2 trumpets,
1 trombone, 2 alto saxophones, 1 tenor saxophone,
piano, bass and drums.
MARSHALL BROWN MUSIC. INC.
Now available at all leading music stores or write,
wire, or phone direct to:
Charles Colin Exclusive Distributor
CHARLES COLIN, 1225 6th Ave., N. Y. 19, JU 6-9791
Enclosed please find $
Please send orchestration(s)
($3.00 each.)
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THE FINEST IN J A Z Z
SINCE 1939
5* Witt
DONALD BYRD
Off to the Racea. "This is a largely new
Donald Byrd. Like that of any other good
Jazz player, his performance is not wholly
perfect nor is it amazing from a technical
standpoint. This is, however, the best recorded example of Byrd I've heard yet."
—Bob Freedman
The Jaxs Review
BLUE NOTE 4007
12" LP, List $4.98
Complete Catalog on Request
BLUE NOTE RECORDS, INC.
47 West 63rd St., New York 23
manner. Summertime as a full-voiced
up-tempo swinger just doesn't accede
to the meaning and spirit of the
original, in which it is used as an
introduction to Catfish Row as a way
of life.
This lack of involvement with the
emotional currents of the opera makes
the scheduling of numbers in
performance order superfluous. There
is no unifying thread joining the
sections either stylistically or
emotionally. In I Got Plenty 0' Nuttin,
for instance, Gershwin's original
rhythmic motive is retained, but the
character of the tune is then
distorted by an anachronistic set
of canonic imitations. In I Loves You,
Porgy, Bill Evans' piano solo moves
for four bars over an absolutely
static harmonic base. Although this
seems to be intentional, the logic
behind such a distortion of the source
material is never justified as the
arrangement continues. Then the lovely
opening of Oh Bess, Oh Where's
My Bess? is superseded by some of the
most blatant stock arranging tricks
(Open brass over a sax 'obbligato':
unison trombones pumping out
rhythmic figures). The final ignominy
is the attempt in the liner notes to
inform us that Potts' arrangement of
Oh Lawd, I'm On My Way will lead
the listener to believe that "Porgy
will surely make it to New York to
find his Bess." Well, if such
positivism can be carried by a basic
up-tempo swinger, with solos around the
sections, then all is well. But I'm
afraid I can't agree. The implication
of the opera, (and it is an extremely
pertinent implication) is that Porgy
will not recapture Bess, and it is this
triumph of .despair which emphasizes
its pathetic beauty. This denouement
is never achieved in the Potts' score.
Nevertheless, there is still a lot
of good old-fashioned blowing on the
album. Art Farmer stands out, as
he has on practically all of his
recent performances. His delightfully
conceived solo on I Loves You, Porgy is
strongly reminiscent of that picaresque
quality that Dizzy could get in his
early ballad work. And Bob Brookmeyer
(who has gained immeasurably in
his command of the instrument) is
alternatively gutty and wistful; listen
to his solo on Oh Bess, Oh Where's
My Bess. The sax section achieves
an amalgamation of sound which has
been far too rare for the past ten
years or so. Their work on A Woman
Is A Sometimes Thing reminded
me of that tight, single horn quality
that was characteristic of the old
Benny Goodman sections.
Avoid the pretensions of the liner notes
(and title) and accept it for what
it is; a happy non-experimental,
swinging big band.
The production of the album, by the
way, is superb. United Artists has
apparently spared no expense in
presenting an attractive package,
:
complete with some good photographs
and a fairly accurate description of
solos and personnel (the notable
exception being an unlisted solo by
Art Farmer on I Got Plenty 0' Nuttin).
Perhaps with luck it may even turn
out to be the last jazz version of
Porgy and Bess. Enough's
enough.
Don Heckman
"DOWN BEAT JAZZ CONCERT, VOL. 2".
Dot, DLP 3188.
Blues Over Easy—Manny Albam and His Jazz
Greats:
Bernie Glow, Nick Travis, Ernie Royal,
trumpets; Frank Rehak, Jim Dahl, Tommy
Mitchell, trombones; Al Conn, tenor saxophone;
Gene Quill, alto saxophone; Pepper Adams,
baritone saxophone; Jerome Richardson, flute,
tenor saxophone; Dick Katz, piano; Milt
Hinton, bass Osie Johnson, drums. Soloists:
George Auld, tenor saxophone; Hal McKusick,
bass clarinet; Dick Katz and Steve Allen,
;
piano; Paul Horn, alto saxophone.
Scrapple from the Apple—Tony Scott Quintet:
Scott, baritone saxophone; Jimmy Knepper,
trombone; Kenny Burrell, guitar; Sam Jones,
bass; Paul Motian, drums.
Rose Room—Steve Allen Quartet:
Allen, piano; 6eorge Auld, tenor saxophone;
Milt Hinton, bass Osie Johnson, drums.
;
Dougy's Buggy—Don Elliot Quintet:
Don Elliot, trumpet, vibes; Hal McKusick, bass
clarinet; Doug Watkins, bass; Bob Corwin,
piano; Nick Stabulas, drums.
Fast Thing in C—Steve Allen Trio:
Steve Allen, piano; Osie Johnson, drums; Milt
Hinton, bass.
Fortunately for me, I did not attend
the concert at which this was made.
But the record itself is sufficient
testimony that for the promoters jazz
was a term used to sell tickets.
Actually, the whole affair could be
dismissed by simply calling it a
mess, but certain features of the thing
deserve to be examined, if only to
delineate the outlines of this sort
of cultural blight. I will glance at
each selection in turn.
Blues Over Easy: Manny Albam is a
curious, but all too typical,
phenomenon. To that mass of record
buyers, concert-goers, and poll-voters
to whom jazz means Andre Previn,
Stan Kenton, Woody Herman, and
Peter Gunn (twenty years ago this
sort of audience was really excited
about Ziggy Elman), Albam is one
of the arrangers in the select company
of Ralph Burns, Pete Rugolo, and
Neal Hefti. His title to this exalted
position is clear and unambiguous;
his work is trite, derivative, and
uninteresting. Albam is only too
representative of those big band
arrangers from the mid-forties who
derived their only vital ideas from
the innovators at work at the time,
and then, to compound things,
diluted them until they became
palatable to a mass audience. I
don't mean to say that Albam, or any
of the other people referred to, is, in
any sense, an intellectually dishonest
musician. He undoubtedly works quite
sincerely and honestly at jazz. All
the same, the result is unoriginal
and dull. Work of this sort lends itself
admirably to the efforts of the new
jazz promoters and publicists who
aim at an audience to whom the
more advanced and significant works of
a Russell or Monk, for instance, are
meaningless. It is interesting to note
that Albam has seven Ips on the
market under his own name, while
George Russell has one. There is a
moral here, but I hesitate to draw
it; cynicism about recording companies
and promoters comes too easily to
me these days.
For this concert Albam evidently
decided to work in the Basie style
and so turned the appropriate
faucet. What came out was a mass
of tedious riffs unrelieved by any
subtlety of dynamics or section
work. Several soloists, such as George
Auld and Paul Horn, blew dully and
to no purpose. The piece de resistance
came when Steve Allen sat at the
same piano'with Dick Katz. At this
point words become simply inadequate
to describe the results. One's sympathy
for Katz is boundless.
I suggest, for the next Down Beat
bash, that Albam compose a concerto
grosso for Stan Kenton and the Dukes
of Dixieland. This to be followed by an
encore played by Steve Allen and
Joe "Fingers" Carr at the same piano
and at the same time. Tickets should
really move for that, and it might
even settle the cold war.
Scrapple from the Apple: Here we
have Tony Scott making Tony Scott
noises on the baritone saxophone
rather than the clarinet. It is still
pretty dull. Jimmy Knepper turns in
some surprisingly sloppy work. I, for
one, hold rather high hopes for
Knepper, and it is disturbing to hear
him play this badly. But just being in
this concert at all must have been a
disconcerting experience.
Rose Room: This one puts us back with
Steve Allen. I don't know how to
describe Allen as a pianist.
"Amateur" struck me, at first, as an
apt term, but this would be unfair
to deserving amateur musicians.
What can one say of a pianist who
has neither tecehnique nor ideas?
It is obvious why Allen was on
hand for the concert; his hip television
program personality guaranteed the
presence of thousands of discerning
devotees of the art. George Auld and
everyone else play badly.
Give Me the Simple Life: Paul Horn
shows up here as the tritest flutist
in jazz. Katz, possibly suffering
from trauma, plays competently, but
not with the skill which one has
come to expect from him. I suppose
bland would best describe this one.
Dougy's Buggy: We have here the
edifying spectacle of Don Elliot
making noises meant to sound,
presumably, like Miles Davis. They
don't, but they are bad. Elliot,
sparing us nothing, also plays the
vibes, but neither Milt Jackson nor
Red Norvo should worry. Hal McKusick
contributes a few good moments, but
his voice is as one crying in the
wilderness.
Fast Thing in C: Steve Allen returns
as a boogie woogie pianist with
absolutely no comprehension of the
style. But, then, even simple
competence is, I suppose, too much
to expect.
This entire review has amounted to a
long caveat emptor. It is only fair to
note that excellent musicians such as
McKusick, Katz, and Watkins are, here,
simply overwhelmed by mediocrity.
Also, the drumming of Osie Johnson,
usually dependable sets a new
standard in sloppiness.
The record has notes by Dom Cerufli
in a golly-it-was-great style.
H. A. Woodfin
THE SEVEN AGES OF JAZZ, produced
by Leonard Feather. Metrojazz 2-E1009.
Variously: Brownie McGhee; Willie "The Lion"
Smith; Don Elliott; Tyree Glenn; Dick Hyman;
Don Lamond; Milt Hinton; Buck Clayton;
Coleman Hawkins; George Auld; Billie Holiday;
Maxine Sullivan.
I'm Gonna Tell God How You Treat Me; Take
This Hammer; See See Rider; Maple Leaf Rag;
Tiger Rag; Dippermouth Blues,- Sneak Away;
Singing The Blues It Don't Mean a Thing;
Stompin' At The Savoy; Honky Tonk Train
Blues; Monday Date; Ain't Misbehavin'; After
You've Gone; I Wished On The Moon; Lover
Man; One O'clock Jump; I'm Beginning To See
The Light; If I Could Be With You; Groovin'
High; Stuffy; Indiana; Blue and Sentimental;
I Cover The Waterfront; Indian Summer; Vibes
Impressions; Jazz Lab; I'm Gonna Tell God
How You Treat Me.
;
There are several commentators who
think that jazz is best approached
as a kind of musical vaudeville, and
the more honest among them frankly
admit it.
Well, Cab Calloway's prancing and
shouting, the late Sidney Bechet's bit
of taking his clarinet to pieces—and
for that matter most of what Ted Lewis
does—are fine vaudeville, no doubt,
but they aren't very interesting
musically. And Armstrong and Gillespie
are interesting musically, sometimes
despite their vaudeville. Maybe
this is worth going on with for
a bit: all folklore is not art, but a
lot of pre-jazz and early jazz was art.
All vaudeville, even a lot of good
vaudeville, is not art, but a lot of jazz
of the thirties (which had the overt
function of being what we can
loosely call vaudeville) was art. Finally,
the modern jazzman (arranger or
improvisor) is in the most daring and
dangerous position of all, for if he does
not produce a music valid for its own
sake (an "art music", if you will) he
produces nothing whatever. He no
longer fulfills the social functions of
"background music" or of "show".
Jazz took a precarious path in the midforties, and I suspect that the abiding
anxieties of some of those who set
it on that path may have come in part
from the knowledge (conscious or
not) of the very vulnerable role they
were taking on for the future of their
art. It is as if they were saying
both for themselves and for their
successors: we will make a new
kind of valid "concert" music or we
will perish; jazz will become a kind
of art music or it will die. And if Dizzy
had something to fall back on, Parker
had nothing.
All of this talk is perhaps a way
of avoiding the rather dismal prospect
of reviewing the set at hand: the
history of jazz as a long and tawdry
vaudeville turn (why doesn't someone
do the history of painting in living
tableau on the Loew's circuit? it's art
ain't it?) equipped with a "clever"
title arrived at by considerable
stretching ("folk" and "blues", "bop"
and "modern" all make it as
categories); and—in case anybody
should miss the real tone of it all—
Don Elliott doing that club act of his
(as Norvo, Hamp, Gibbs, Jackson).
Dick Hyman does un-swinging
and presumptious imitations of Hines,
Garner, etc.
If I keep this up, I know I shall
soon be carping badly, but I would
also like to suggest that J.A.T.P. is
not one of the most important artistic
events in the recent history of jazz,
and that such efforts at neo-classical
jazz that Hyman's Jazz Lab allude to
here are spurious—I mention those
points because they persist in several
accounts of "jazz history" in which
Leonard Feather has been
involved.
Well, if the files of Decca-CoralBrunswick were not up to the task
(see The Jazz Review, September), an
effort by Elliot, Glenn, Hyman, etc. to
play "dixieland" is an unspeakable
travesty. And if you can sit through
a lot of pseudo-style and a lot of
pseudo-culture (it must be possible to
discuss bop drumming without
implying that all before it was
boorishly monotonous), and such
terrors as Buck Clayton also trying to
play dixieland, you get some rewards.
You get Buck Clayton and Coleman
Hawkins playing beautifully on tracks
representing the 'thirties and early
'forties, and you get Billie Holiday on
what seems to me two of the best
tracks she had made in years—and
my goodness how beautifully Clayton
accompanies her.
Martin Williams
h
a
n
o
—
BUCK
v
e
r
S8001
"
HAMMER
Like Peck Kelly of Texas, and Joe
Abernathy of New York, Buck
Hammer has become a legendary
figure, although to what extent the
event of his untimely death contributed to the current wave of
interest in him it would be at the
present time hard to say. We
must be wary, of course, in overpraising Hammer, or expecting too
much of him. On the other hand,
we must savor the contents of this
album very carefully for this collection is all we have heard of
Buck, or all we shall ever hear.
Peck Kelly would not record at all,
and eventually would not play at
all. Abernathy refused to record
for long periods of time but fortunately was induced to take part in
several commercial sessions on a
few occasions. Buck Hammer for
many years refused all offers that
would have involved his leaving
Glen Springs, Alabama, and when
he finally consented to visit Nashville, in the winter of 1956, to record these few sides he did so
with no particular enthusiasm but
as the result of a promise made to
his brother Martin in an off-guard
moment.
Available monophonic and stereo.
ftanover
—
M8001
-
Hanover-Signature Record Corporation
119 West 57th Street, N. Y. 19, N. Y.
43
"Rockin' Together". Atco 33-103.
Yakety Yak; lfic Early in the Morning; Night
Life; If I Had My Life to Live Over; Yes Sir
;
That's My Baby; Splish Splash; Searchin';
Woodchopper's Ball; If Hurts to Love Someone;
Confess it to Your Heart; Sh-boom.
There is little need for an extended
discussion of this record in this
magazine. Everybody can see that it is
a collection of recent popular hits. Like
them or not, everybody has heard
some of them, and severer
spirits doubtless have pithier criticisms
to offer than I. None of the selections
has much to do with jazz, and it is
sad to realize how little some of them
have to do with human life from
any point of view. It has surely been
observed many times that American
crowd culture succeeds most when it is
most wholly divorced from the
common concerns of plain existence,
when it is quite deliberately divested
of anything that might require a
little effort on the part of the consumer,
when it comes closest to warranting
the label "Untouched by human hands."
The most pertinent to my thesis of the
above numbers is probably the
version of Woodchopper's Ball, a
grinning death's head if ever there was
one; more complicated instances are
the two numbers by Bobby Darin—
Splish Splash and Early in the Morning,
two shamelessly cynical artificially
excited imitations of rock and roll
so proficient that they almost compel
admiration; how much decenter
seems the work of Elvis Presley, even,
in contrast to these foolish pieces,
delivered in kind of Little
Black Sambo dialect.
Of course there is some enjoyment here,
and occasionally the breath of life.
I have always liked Sh-boom; even the
amateurism which builds it to a
premature climax, leaving the last halfchorus with nothing to do but
repeat—even this seems a
rather endearing trait, in these
surroundings. The lyrics, too, are by
no means nonsense: everybody
must feel how pathetic the ellipsis:
"Hello, hello again—sh-boom—
And hoping we'll meet again." It is
difficult to admire this expressly without
giving an impression of satire; but
those two lines seem as successful a
description of the fragmentary, the
impermanent human relationship as one
might find anywhere in popular music.
There is a similar pathos in
Yes Sir, That's My Baby, though it is
difficult to judge the sensations
through the echo-chamber miasma that
surrounds them. This is a rather
churchy reworking of the old tune,
carried chiefly by a girl singer
who looks and sounds very young, a
bit unsteady, but tasteful.
Also worth mentioning are the Coasters,
in two well-known and quite
successful comic number, Searchin'
and Yakety Yak. I do not find anything
musical worth commenting on, but
both pieces are good low comedy,
attacked with the appropriate
vehemence. Apart from four numbers,
the record offers little but
crudeness and a sought-after
monotony, appropriate, in its ghastly
way, to the dim, despairing
beerjoints which are its usual
surroundings.
Glenn Coulter
"Primitive Piano". Tone Record LP 1.
Speckled Red, Billie Pierce,
James Robinson, Donald Suggs.
JIMMY AND MAMA YANCEY:
"Pure Blues". Atlantic 1283.
See page 42 for personnel
and titles.
Tone Records has given us ten numbers
in the best tradition of primitive
twelve bar blues; repetitive devices,
missed notes, false starts and a heavy
foot on the pedal when the going
gets tricky.
Speckled Red essays a chorus rather
"advanced" in some respects at the
end of Dad's Piece. Beyond that,
however, the conception throughout
this record is as safely "primitive"
as the execution.
Billie Pierce plays a lot of piano
within this idiom. Her ideas are on a
bolder scale than her technique is
able to puli off, notably on the fourhanded In the Racket. But whatever
else, this lady swings! In this respect
she outdoes her male colleagues
on this Ip. The strong work here is
unquestionably hers and Speckled
Red's. Between them they trot out all
the strengths of primitive piano at
its best—and its limitations.
The other work emphasizes the
limitations. Of course, it is not all
a question of technique—though part
of it must be. James Robinson, for
example, may have some ideas, but
he lacks enough technique even to let
us know whether he does or not.
The role of technique is an interesting
thing. Jimmy Yancey, for example,
has hardly more technique than Doug
Suggs and Robinson and perhaps less
than Billie or Speckled Red. Yancey
can't even manage clearly those
repeated triad figures in Yancey's
Bugle Call.
It would be embarrassing to inquire
how many tunes in Yancey's total
repertoire were not standard blues.
Very few, I suspect. On this Ip, he
forges through one whole side of
seven numbers, without once leaving
the twelve-bar structure. With Mama
singing on the other side, caution is
thrown to the four winds and together
they dash out into the foreign changes
of Make Me a Pallet on the Floor and
How Long Blues.
Yet Yancey is something several
notches above the run-of-the-mill
primitive piano.
Repetition in his hands is effective.
He extracts maximum value out of
very simple rhythmic ideas. He builds
a special kind of swing—not rocking
like Billie Pierce or so many of the
old pianists—more like that of the
modernists with whom Yancey
otherwise had nothing in common.
All in all, Yancey's is one of the truly
unique and personalized piano styles
of jazz history. To say that he is
"economical" is to belabor the obvious.
Yet on each listening it comes home
once more what an unusual feat it is
to create something so meaningful
out of such extreme austerity. The
only other pianist who has ever
approached this kind of achievement
is Monk.
I should immediately emphasize that
there is no comparing Yancey with
Monk. Because Yancey does so much
with so little, one tends to over-value
the end product. A major triad painted
every shade and variety of color is
still a major triad. And Yancey is
still a primitive pianist.
Incidentally, Mama as a vocalist is
difficult to get used to. She uses her
voice as an instrument. How richly
significant are the words in Bessie
Smith's blues—Empty Bed Blues, for
one very good example. How utterly
irrelevant are the words Mama sings
in the face of what she's doing with the
notes. For particularly striking
illustrations of this, dig the first
choruses of Four O'clock Blues and
How Long Blues, especially the latter
where the words could be quite
moving if Mama had any interest in
putting them across rather than
the notes.
Guy Waterman
BROWNIE McGHEE: Brownie "McGhee
Sings The Blues". Folkways 3557.
"Blues in the Mississippi Night".
United Artists 4027.
The McGhee record is, I'm certain,
one of his best. It is, say, a good
performance by a seasoned performer.
The other, "Blues in the Mississippi
Night", is not even a performance . . .
(except in the most literal sense . . .
the same way the word "act" means
two things). So, I say, the difference
between these two records is "an
act" vs. "the act".
Brownie knows what he's doing. Two
of the tunes on this record Poor Boy,
I Ain't Gonna Scold You) are very good
Brownie, indeed. But what he does
best is still "performance", "an act",
and seems, no matter how good the
performance is, never to reveal much
of the performer, or, as far as I'm
concerned, to indicate ihat the
"performance" is an extension of some
genuinely felt emotion. All the elements
of good, "moving" blues singing seem
to be contained in Brownie's work
except, to me, the real excitement
never quite gets through. Like a
mystery story without a climax; a
lot of plot but no resolution, ft
gets dull.
I suppose the major reason for this
kind of emotional void in Brownie's
work is his insistence on sounding,
most of the time, like a watercolor
Josh White, a man who seems to rhe
to make blues singing a kind of
irritating mood music. Every tune,
somehow, seems almost to end up
saying "1 came up the Mississippi on
a b o a t . . . and after suffering untold
horrors at the hands of you white
folks . . . hyar I is right hyar at
The Cafe Society". Not good. Blues
singing is like any other 'art form':
mere imitation, either of another artist,
or of the more easily developed effects
of the particular form, can never
produce anything but, perhaps, a rather
showy vapidity.
Opposed to Brownie's "performance",
"Blues in the Mississippi Night" seems
to me to be a good example of the
artless "act". The merest artifice could
have ruined this record. The slightest
performer's self-consciousness would
have reduced it to the rankest
parody.
What we have is three men talking
(for the most part) amongst
themselves. Telling each other old,
familiar lies. Lamenting familiar, yet
still poignant, laments. We are aware
that these people are performers only
because their 'performances' are
caught here on the record, frozen
and 'untouched'. . . and therefore
'artificial'. But these three men have
nothing to do with the world of
performance. In this record you get
a part of their lives . . . which is,
among the world of performers, limited
only to the greatest of artifice. If
John Coltrane makes you feel some
of the energy of his life, through his
art, then you have something equal
to this record.
At its best, you get a sense of
'overhearing' all the wonderful
dialogue. As if you were sitting in some
dumpy old saloon in the rural deep
South, and here next to you, these
three jocular Negro men, lying their
heads off... and once in a while
chanting little snatches of songs
they feel close to. That feeling is made
priceless here.
To emphasize certain parts of the
conversations (e.g. when the men are
talking about the reprisals the whites
took against any Negro who defied
them, sometimes, as in the case
mentioned, killing off whole
families . . .} Alan Lomax has dubbed
in suitable music he had recorded
previously. During the tales about the
reprisals it is the terribly sad, terribiy
beautiful chant Another Man Done
Gone. The version LomaX has here (I
wonder who it was? . . . a high, flat,
yet piercing, woman's voice . . .
sounding as if the world had finally
killed off everything she'd loved) makes
you question Odetta's version. In fact,
makes you not want to hear it again!
There is much of the South that
comes to us whole here. The South,
and all it means to anybody who
knows it. From the tragic tales of
reprisal, rape, unbelievable injustice,
to the overpowering humor the Negro
has transformed these into. There are
wonderful bits of typical southern
Negro humor here. "Putting down" (or
"on") white folks has always been
the ranking, and indeed sharpest
example of Negro humor. . . (e.g.
telling how in some part of the
South a Negro had to call white
mules "Mister," and ask for Prince
Albert tobacco by saying "Can 1 please
have some Mr. Prince Albert Tobacco?"
My grandfather used to tell it too . . .
"What you mean, 'gimme', boy, dont
you see that white man on the can?"
And then he'd add . . . "Sho was glad
it wasn't a white woman . . . I'da
never got nothing to smoke!")
A minor (or maybe not so minor)
incongruity is that on most of the
Folkways (and other companies with old
blues singers) liner notes, where the
lyrics of the songs heard in a particular
album have been transcribed, there
are always tremendous discrepancies
between what the singer is singing,
and what the transcriber has written
down. It was really awful on Brownie's
notes . . . and he sounds like Milton
Cross compared with, say, Blind Lemon
or somebody. I suspect the transcribers
are Johnny Math is fans, or maybe
have paper ears.
THE
BLUES
Then You'll
Know You've
Got
JOHN LEE HOOKER
LeRoi Jones
ELIZABETH COTTEN: "Negro Folk
Songs and Tunes". Folkways FG 3526.
Wilson Rag; Freight Train; Goin' Down the
Road Feelin' Bad; I Don't Love Nobody; Ain't
Got No Honey Baby Now; Honey Babe Your
Papa Cares For You; Vastopol; Here Did
Rattler Here; Sent For My Fiddle; Geo. Buck;
Run-Run; Mama Your Son Done Gone; Sweet
Bye and Bye What a Friend We Have in
Jesus; Oh Babe It Ain't No Lie; Spanish Flang
Dang; When I Get Home; Graduation March.
;
There is a tendency in the folklore
field to collect and record every scrap
of information or "lore" falling from
SONNY BOY WILLIAMSON
CHESS RECORD CORP.
2120 S. Michigan Ave., Chicago, III.
45
the mouths of old-timers without
weighing its merit. While field
recording is of great value to the
scholar as a tool for research and as
a means of preserving material intact,
the on-the-spot session from the rickety
porch does not always tie up into a
neatly-packaged Ip.
In the eagerness to capture an
authentic "itch-and-scratch-it
folksiness" (as a Time movie reviewer
phrased it), some collector-recorders
appear to lose all sense of proportion
and eagerly swallow any hokum served
them by the quaint "uncle" or "aunt"
who is putting them on.
If the scholar wishes to record these
old-timey reminiscenses or fabrications
for his private purposes, fine. If he
is able to extract from the collection
even one really worth-while item for
use in his academic undertakings, good.
The scholar should be able to
distinguish what is actually pertinent
to folklore and cultural tradition and
what is merely the personal
idiosyncrasies of an informant. But
does the layman possess the knowledge
and discriminatory powers to do
likewise, if such material is dumped
in front of him unsorted on an Ip?
He might be convinced beforehand
that the material must be worthy of
conservation and respect since it
emanates from "The Folk;" and when
he is exposed to the "let's-get-togetherfolks" atmosphere of some of these
recordings, his initial convictions are
likely to be reinforced.
These remarks were prompted by the
album "Negro Folk Songs and
Tunes." Not that the recollected songs
played and sung by Elizabeth Cotten
here are hokum or superfluous; they
form one more small bit of background
data on the Negro folk roots of jazz.
However, little can be derived from
the album that will be of more value
to the scholar and historian, than
to the layman or casual listener.
The album is a hodgepodge of
instrumental guitar work, gospel hymns,
blues of varying lengths, and
miscellaneous secular songs, some of
which have been recorded before in
fuller, more musically satisfying
versions. Mrs. Cotten picks her
instrument upside down, as she is
left-handed, and her style is identified
as "ragtime." Those who are
connoisseurs of folk guitar and banjo
styles, able to distinguish picking
techniques, will be able to appreciate
these technicalities on the
instrumental tracks; those who are
not may find the music a bit
repetitious.
According to the notes, Mrs. Cotten
learned these songs in her early years,
then joined the church shortly after
her marriage at fifteen, and for
thirty-five years gave up all but
religious music. When she began
working for the Seeger family she
tried to recall the old tunes. Since she
was unable to remember all the words,
many of the songs are fragmentary and
consequently not too satisfying
unless the listener is familiar with
complete versions.
A few of Mrs. Cotten's comments
about the tunes—where and when they
were played and how she learned
them—appear in the notes, but in
general the notes are of no help in
relating the songs to each other, in
supplying some thread which would
tie the tunes to the folk song tradition,
or in pointing out the influence of
this music on later types and the
direction of its subsequent
development. Probably the scholar or
folk music student is capable of
supplying this information for himself,
but for the casual listener, a more
informative set of notes would
be of aid.
In this Ip, emphasis is on material
rather than performer and performance.
According to folk song enthusiasts,
the fact that Mrs. Cotten's vocals are
a little shaky and ofen flat, that some
of her singing is so faint behind the
guitar that the lyrics would be a
total loss were they not printed in
the notes, and that her playing is
invaded by occasional squeaks, is
secondary to the fact that the material
itself has not been tampered with
and that Mrs. Cotten presents the
songs for themselves.
These are not the finished
performances of folk songs we have
from singers of folk song who give
concerts or make records; these are
not even performances. With Mrs.
Cotten, in contrast to the precious
handling of songs by some professional
folk singers who are so full of folksy
abandon and so determinedly
in-concert-but-afl-folk, one has the
sense of overhearing someone singing
to pass the time, taking up another
song on tiring of one.
I feel, though, that there are many
elderly persons with good memories
and extensive repertoires who, if given
an opportunity to record, could equal
if not surpass Mrs. Cotten, whose
voice and material are very ordinary.
The fact that this lady happened to
work for the Seegers did not exactly
harm her discovery or recording
"career." If the only requisite
necessary to making a folk recording be
that the person recall a few old songs,
I can think of several geriatric
individuals—some in my own family—
I could "discover" right now.
Though old songs and items
transmitted through oral tradition
should be preserved, if only for the
negative virtue of establishing the low
calibrations by which to gauge the
popular expressions of a culture, they
need not all be thrust before the public
haphazardly. Since Mrs. Cotten's songs
are useful primarily for these involved
in research, this material really
belongs in archives, for it does not
work into an Ip of consequence.
Mimi Clar
THE DIXIE HUMMINGBIRDS: "A
Christian Testimonial". Peacock
PLP 100.
The Final Edition; Oh How I Love Jesus; I
Just Want To Tell You; Christian's Automobile;
Nobody Knows the Trouble I see; Are You
Ready; God Is Now Speaking; We'll Meet
Again; Poor Pilgrim of Sorrow-, He'll Do the
Same For You; Devil Can't Harm a Praying
Man; Christian Testimonial.
The Dixie Hummingbirds are one of
the leading gospel recording groups
in the country today.
A group with a light, easy, floating
sound, rather than a blue or robust
delivery like the Original Gospel
Harmonettes, the Dixie Hummingbirds
(James Davis, Howard Carroll, James
Walker, Ira Tucker, William Bo-Bo,
and Beachey Thompson) build their
lead-chorus arrangements over guitar,
handclaps and drums, while the bass
voice acts like part of the rhythm
section by booming out resonant bass
lines on the syllable "bmm." (The
descending bass lines on He'll Do the
Same For You and the breaks on Are
You Ready stand out like Blanton's
work behind the Ellington orchestra.)
Though the Hummingbirds' style takes
shape most readily on ear-catching
songs like Devil Can't Harm a Praying
Man and Are You Ready, both of which
move at a brisk trot, their performance
of slow or spiritual-type numbers like
Poor Pilgrim of Sorrow, Nobody Knows
the Trouble I See (standard words but
different tune), and particularly the
lovely Christian Testimonial, is of the
highest musical quality and reflects
their personal inspiration and religious
conviction.
The track called Christian's Automobile
is one of those metaphorical
excursions that relates religious
experiences to everyday events. The
partial transcription of the text which
follows, reveals an obvious but
effective use of imagery to get across
spiritual ideals in terms immediate
enough to be easily comprehended
and applied:
Every child of God running
for Jesus
Just like an automobile . . .
Prayer is your driver, faith is your
steerin' wheel,
tf you get on the road to glory,
Satan is gonna try to flag you down
But keep on driving . . .
You got to check on your tires;
you got a rough road ahead
And when you're weary from
the journey
God will put you to bed.
You got to check on your brakes,
and stop your wicked ways . . .
You gotta check on your lights;
and see your own faults
Stop while you can see them
children.
Or your soul will be lost.
HEW WBNN'S
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You gotta check on your generator
You need more strength and power
You can't do nothing without
the Man,
You need Him every hour.
Christians, oh, press on
your starters
And start your automobile.
Put it in first gear and go on
up the hill.
Drive on, children, if I never
see you no more
I'll meet you when I pull in
on the other shore.
And I'm no worried—I've got
my parking space . . .
Mimi Clar
TAMBOURINES TO GLORY.
Folkways FG 3538.
I don't know much about gospel
music, but I know what I like. On
the one hand I like the informal
congregational singing, usually with
plenty of handclapping and sometimes
with instrumental accompaniment, that
I think of as sanctified singing—
whether it really is or not I don't
know. On the other hand I like the
solo singing by the kind of singers
I used to think of as 'trained'. (I also
happen to like Rev. Gary Davis and
Blind Willie Johnson, especially for
their stunning guitar playing, but that
would make three hands and a bad
figure of speech.)
Harry Smith included two terrific
examples of the kind of ensemble
singing I mean in his "Anthology of
American Folk Music" for Folkways
(a marvelous collection anyhow): Rev.
F. W. McGee's Fifty Miles of Elbow
Room with piano, guitar and a fine hot
trumpet; and Rev. D. C. Rice's I'm in
the Battlefield for my Lord, with a full
instrumental group including a trumpet
who certainly sounds like Bunk
Johnson, although I understand he
probably isn't. There is about some of
these groups an unforced exuberance—
I am tempted to say honest
exuberance—found in the best New
Orleans jazz. I don't know how far back
the style goes, but it was already fully
developed by the time the records I
mentioned were made (1929-31); in
any event most of the features
associated with modern gospel music
were there, as well as an integrated
instrumental style one seldom hears
anymore.
Of the good soloists I have heard,
most seem to be women. The best of
them all, as far as I am concerned,
is Georgia Peach, who is not only a
great gospel singer, but a great artist.
I know her only through her records,
particularly the Classic Editions Ip
(I've never interviewed her); on them
she exhibits a voice of magnficent
tonal quality with which she does
wondrous things.
"Tambourines to Glory" has both of the
kinds of gospel music I've been talking
about, but nothing of the same
distinction. Considering Langston
Hughes accomplishments as a poet the
verses, all by him, are rather ordinary.
"As I go, as I go / Oh, Jesus, walk
by my side / As I go. / As I go,
as I go / Be my guide as I go /
Through this world" does not seem to
me to be particularly remarkable
poetry. There is however some
refreshing vernacular: "Devil, devil let
yourself get lost! / Yesterday, I
played your game, / But today I'll
be the boss. / I gave up balling /
And I gave up sin, / Gave up
whiskey / And I gave up gin. / My
feet are anchored on the gospel
shore / And I ain't gonna play
no more" which must be something of
a new departure in religious verse.
Nor could I tell Jobe Huntley's tunes
from a hundred others I've heard.
Huntley is also the soloist on When
I Touch His Garment, Back to the
Fold, and Tambourines to Glory,
although I suppose it would be more
correct to say he is the leader on
the last piece. At the beginning of
Back to the Fold his voice is downright
bad; at its best, it just isn't very
good. The timbre isn't there to begin
with, and he doesn't seem to be
able to do anything with his voice
to make up for the lack.
As a soloist, Rev. Ernest Cook (Home
to God, Thank God I've Got the Bible)
seems much better to me, which is
not to say he is a great singer. But
at least he has some kind of voice,
and I rather enjoyed Thank God I've
Got the Bible. Of course the occasional
interjected 'yeahs' in the background
help, and so does the humming at the
beginning.
On the whole, the numbers with the
chorus—I must confess a certain
amount of confusion as to who they
are, but I would guess the Porter
Singers—seem to be the better ones.
The choral singing has none of the
looseness of the sanctified
congregation, their shifting accents,
or their unpredictable entrances and
exits. As a matter of fact the chorus
is pretty well disciplined, with a bright
sound and an unstrained vigor. There
are a few 'hallelujahs', 'oh yeahs', and
'sing it's!' scattered about, but for the
most part the chorus comes in
cleanly, just where it is supposed
to. Whoever did the arrangements
showed some imagination in the use
of the chorus, which is sometimes
in unison with the lead singer,
sometimes antiphonal (this is AfroAmerican music, you know), and on
As I Go snaps out 'walk b'side me'
in a march rhythm under Ernest
Cook's 'As I go, as I go.' A familiar
effect I suppose, but a good one.
I'm Gonna Testify is an exciting
ensemble number with almost the full
machinery: a tambourine (teenage
Benjamin Snowden), after-beat hand
clapping, the high, sustained note from
the chorus. As the piece develops the
rhythm is broken down into smaller
units, increasing the tension toward a
climax, something few of the other
pieces achieve. Let the Church Say
Amen does have the full machinery—
Carl McWilliams' sax in addition to the
tambourine, organist Hampton Carlton,
pianist Hugh E. Porter, and guitarist
Yvonne Cumberbatch—but it is also
much less good. There is a fair female
soloist in the 'Licker drinking brother'
verse, and another pretty good one
in he last verse ('If some weary
warrior'), but the woman who solos
(the anonymous notes also fail to
identify many of the people on the
record) on 'Listen, wayward sister' is
perfectly dreadful. I did like Devil,
Take Yourself Away sung from the
piano—which sounds, by the way,
remarkably like Fats Waller—by Hugh
Porter, accompanied by some fine
massed antiphonal singing.
The notes make the interesting remark
that 'church music is usually fifty years
behind worldly music' I don't know
that this has always been true—it
seems to me there was a time in
music history when quite the reverse
was true—and I don't know about the
fifty years. I'd say thirty years is
closer, for one striking thing about
the music on this Ip is the way it
snacks of the 'twenties. From the piano
introduction, which could serve any
Follies chorus line, the title number
Tambourines to Glory sums it up: the
'hot' saxophone, the breaks, the stride
piano, the Hall-Johnson type,choir
bring us right back to the
Jazz Age.
Of course the faint odor of vaudeville
I seem to detect may not be in the
music at all. There are, indeed, plenty
of joyful noises on the Ip; what I
miss is anything deeper. It is probably
wrong to ask of a music whose aim
is to celebrate something we don't even
believe in that it move us. Yet Georgia
Peach does just this; it could be said
that it is precisely the ability to
transcend the narrow base from which
she operates that makes her singing
Art. When gospel music doesn't
convery this great conviction—and
'Tambourines to Glory' certainly
doesn't—we are left with mere singing,
which may be more or less good as
singing, nothing more. Right at the
beginning of the novel Tambourines
to Glory, Essie is talking to Laura:
"In the evening, Mama would go to
service by herself and turn out the
light and leave me in bed until I
got teen-age. Then I went to church
at night too. I loved those songs,
Precious Lord, Take my Hand. Oh, but
that's pretty! Let's go to church Easter,
Laura."
"Which one, Sanctified or Baptist?"
"Where the singing is best," said
Essie.
"Sanctified," said Laura.
This Ip was recorded at the New
Canaan Baptist Church.
J. S. Shipman
The
Swinging Man's
Jazz
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1312
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THE MODERN JAZZ QUARTET AT MUSIC 1OQQ
INN, VOL. 2 Guest Artist: Sonny Rollins
(El
CHRIS CONNOR SINGS
BALLADS OF THE SAD CAFE
1307
IMTHEAD
IMPROVISED MEDITATIONS
1 EXCURSIONS John Lewis
1313
UTIIUIEWMAI
FATHEAD
David Newman
THE FOUR BROTHERS SOUND
Jimmy Giuffre
1304
lOQC
mm.•Arm or
$4.98
and stereo $5.98
Available monaural
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Milt Jackson
WRITE FOR C O M P L E T E LP C A T A L O G U E
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157
WEST
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•
NEW
YORK
19,
N . Y
THE SHAPE OF JAZZ TO COME
Ornette Coleman
1317
MOVIE
REVIEW
As a movie, Porgy and Bess is a
complete failure. Otto Preminger and
Sam Goldwyn with their usual
passionate intensity have managed to
suck out what few vital juices there are
to the original "operatic" version. They
present it here as a kind of flat,
uncinematic series of rather dull
monologues, interrupted, not frequently
enough, by singing. There was no
reason for this version to be filmed
on location, or the characters to dress
in period costumes, or the usual effects
of Hollywood films; instead all the
movie's characters should have been
made to stand in front of microphones,
like a radio program, reading their
lines to cue in the singers. There
seemed to be no real attempt at
film making, certainly no real attempt
at making a film out of Porgy and Bess.
It seemed the usual badly acted but
beautifully sung opera with not nearly
as much help from the singing as one
usually gets in a Giovanni. It seemed
also—aside from the depressing fact
that operas usually don't have much
development of plot, or characters, and
are essentially just fine singers
clumping awkwardly through stagey
lines—that there had been no attempt
to broaden the opera-ish script into a
credible screenplay. Most of the time,
I felt the story was being narrated,
rather than acted: nothing happened,
really, but the singers kept insisting it
had. It reminded me of the time my
father took me to see a broadcast of
"The Shadow," one of my favorite radio
programs. When we got there and I
discovered that all this marvelous
action was just a bunch of sound
effects, and actors standing in front
of microphones with their hats on,
reading from sheets of paper, I was
thoroughly disenchanted.
But I must admit there wasn't nearly
as much disenchantment at the
unmasking of Porgy and Bess as there
was with "The Shadow." Perhaps
because, to be quite honest, I have
never been sold on Porgy and Bess; in
fact, for most of the time I've known
about the play, I've more or less
been persuaded it was really an awful
thing, with hardly any merit. I always
thought the music represented very
good American popular music (and as
such, I suppose could be classified
as "folk music", but the folk in this
case being so shallowly sophisticated
as to have almost become a form
of musical expression completely antimusical as well as anti-emotional). But
this is something somebody else
ought to talk about at length in an
essay prying into the significance
(culturally) of the success and general
acceptance, by a whole people, of a
music as eminently sterile as the
American Popular Song. Anyway, it
has always troubled me that Gershwin's
music, while admirable in its own way,
never had much to do with Negroes. I
mean, I Got Plenty of Nuthin' has
never made me think of Negroes,
especially just Broadway and for some
unfathomable reason, Oscar Levant.
Heyward's novel is mere second-rate
fare, and I'm not interested enough in
it to try to discuss it separately from
what it got to be as a musical.
I suppose another important factor
in my general feeling of estrangement
from Porgy and Bess is the caliber
of performance I've been exposed to.
I've seen it three times, and each
time I've come away feeling not so
much out of sympathy with the play
as confused about its importance,
seriousness, meaning (to me), etc. The
first time I saw Porgy and Bess was
in an amateur performance by a
hopelessly inept neighborhood group in
Newark, N. J. The second performance
I saw was a Broadway presentation
featuring Lawrence Tib-bet as Porgy.
The film is the third. I have disliked,
unreservedly, all three performances.
The Tibbet debacle actually convinced
me for a time that P and B was mere
parochial head-patting fare. (I
realize now that I was just confusing
aesthetics with sociology.) I also
realize now that P and B is not positive
enough to be even a "shuffle" drama.
This is one reason a crew like
Goldwyn and Preminger couldn't
possibly have made a good film out
of the opera. They are completely
without insight, and the only thing that
could make a human and possibly
moving production out of Porgy would
be a great deal of insight and
intellectual commitment. I am quite
sure Preminger and Goldwyn are
much better off without either. I am
saying that the vision Heyward and
Gershwin present (from the first, their
artifact) for use as an American
drama with music is useless, and that
to make an honest beautiful statement
out of their raw material would take
genius, perhaps of a kind not to be
found in America. To make good
entertainment (which I believe might
be done, with a good rewriting) is a
simpler task, and I think it is not
asking too much to hope that one
day it might be accomplished—or at
least that I might see such an
entertainment.
Another point I have considered (and
perhaps this is most important to
me) is that P and B represent almost
the perfect statement of the American
middle class about Negroes, and that
this filmed version is probably that
statement in classic rendition. I would
say the music is perfect in this
statement for the same reasons Time
magazine can that Dave Brubeck
is the most important jazz musician
of our time—that kind of pleasant,
but in reality, hideous and dishonest
dilution. Gershwin (Rhapsody in Blue,
Paul Whiteman as witnesses) made
a music that capitalized on this kind
of dilution. Heyward's story is almost
the same kind of dilution, but his
results from lack of talent. Gershwin,
at least, did bring an original energy
into what he diluted. He is a "pure
product of America," however tepid.
The film is the classic statement of
this general flattening and softening of
a particular element in America life.
The presentation is geared perfectly to
the content. Everything is smooth,
hitchless, polished and thoroughly
unbelievable. Just as we certainly don't
have to worry about somebody having
reed trouble in Roger Williams'
orchestras, from the beginning of the
film we are sure nobody's in danger
of being put in the way of any artistic
catharsis. It's just as smooth and
bland as you please.
Sidney Poitier says it took him a long
time to decide whether he wanted
to do P and B or not, because he
wanted to make sure he wouldn't be
offending anyone (Negroes, I suppose).
Well, what James Agee said about the
cries that sprang up when it was
announced that Hollywood had bitten
off more than it could chew, politically,
when it filmed For Whom The Bell Tolls
applies here: the only persons that
would be offended by this would be
people interested in seeing a good
film. (Although I suppose someone
could take exception to all those
women walking around with rags on
their heads, everybody knows Ralph
Bunch and Jackie Robinson never walk
around with rags on their heads.) But
it makes me despair of ever really
seeing Negroes in films where they
are not chained to somebody's idea
(no matter how heroic or noble) of how
they ought to be. The Defiant Ones and '
Edge of the City almost make the
grade, but not quite. (I think one
reason these two films don't make it is
the unevenness of Poitier's
performances. As good as he is, Poitier
is not a "professional", in the same
sense that, say, Franchot Tone is.
Poitier has passions he can control or
flaunt with, sometimes, amazing
effect, but he has not, and may not ever
have, the effortless emotional
precision of a Tone. Poitier is an actor
who needs direction, and a great
deal of it, to give an even, well-thoughtout performance. In The Defiant Ones,
I suspect there was a strong
pair of directorial hands manipulating
Poitier's admittedly marvelous
energies. Once this is understood about
Poitier, it is not difficult to see why
he was awkward and incredible,
except in one or two scenes, throughout
Porgy and Bess. Preminger-Goldwyn
is, for a talent like Poitier's,
decidedly lethal.
Anyway, what I mean is that this
P and B is the perfect movie for both
Negro and white middle class. It offends
no one except those few I mentioned
earlier, and it is supposed to be
marvelous entertainment. It fits right
into the current trend in Hollywood for
handling Negroes (and in Hollywood
there has got to be a trend or standard
fashionable method for handling
them, or they don't get handled). In the
old days it was easier: the
patronizing and the paternal were
o.k. and funny. But in these enlightened
times, one has to be a little more
subtle. The trend now is to make any
stories or parts for Negroes completely
boring, and/or unbelievable. (See
James Baldwin's essay on Carmen Jones
in his Notes of a Native Son for the
low-down on all that).
What Harry Belafonte ought to
realize before he makes any more films
(that is, if he is interested seriously
"in presenting the Negro as he really
is") is that just to put a man in a
business suit and have him speak good
English is not enough to have him
realistic. A Negro on the screen, just
because he is not made into a
butler or a domestic, is not
automatically more desirable. There
are other things men and women
do besides not being butlers and maids.
(I bring up Belafonte here because
he has launched a project for
getting more Negroes into films.) And
I think there have been no convincing
portraits of the Negro from
Hollywood (with the possible exception
of a few parts of The Defiant Ones,
Edge of the City, and Intruder in the
Dust). Further, there are only a
frighteningly few Negro actors who
have the talent to give a really
convincing performance. Poitier, Juano
Hernandez in the movies, Claudia
McNeil, Earl Hyman, Earl Scott
and perhaps Melvin Stewart, in the
theatre.
Basically, the film is bad because
the original is already too weak
to stand further dilution, but we are
presented with a double dilution: first
the middle-class vision of the Negro
(or at least the thirties middle
class) and with Preminger-Goldwyn, an
artistic dilution. It is a hard burden
to saddle on some respectable
popular tunes. But the singing in the
film is good: the voices of William
Warfield and Adele Addison in the title
roles and Brock Peters as Crown using
his own voice. In fact, the singing
is so good compared with the acting
(Poitier does nothing; Dorothy
Dandridge has always been a cipher
as far as I'm concerned; Pearl Bailey is
great as Pearl Bailey—but then
there's that saying about pearls before
swine, or something). I had wondered
why (to really get the perfect class
statement) Goldwyn hadn't decided to
use the Miles Davis-Gil Evans
"Porgy and Bess." The kind of sophisticated mood music Miles and Evans
made the tunes into would have
fit perfectly. They (the movie and the
Davis album) gave me the same feeling:
I kept thinking that when Porgy left
Catfish Row for New York, he was
headed straight for the local NAACP
office, and that, he Sportin' Life
and Bess would turn up sooner or later
in the "Speaking of People" column
of Ebony magazine.
Barry Belafonte
LeRoi Jones
BOOK REVIEWS
WHITNEY BALLIETT: The Sound
of Surprise, 46 pieces on jazz.
Dutton & Co. Inc., 1959.
This book collects the jazz pieces Whitney Balliett contributed to The New
Yorker in 1957, 1958, part of 1959,
and revisions of articles for the Saturday Review and The Reporter, ft is
doubtful if Mr. Balliett has done himself a very good service is preserving
all these pieces between hard covers.
Many of them are concert and record
reviews—workaday material of the kind
every jazz writer has to produce but,
with occasional exceptions, of ephemeral interest. Mr. Balliett may have felt
that in bringing them together he was
assembling a picture of the passing
scene as it appeared to one observer
at the time but most of them are too
brief and written too close to the events
to provide many significant insights.
When writing for magazines like The
Jazz Review or Jazz Monthly one is certain the great majority of readers are
interested in jazz and want to know
more about it. But with The New Yorker
one's audience is not primarily interested in jazz, perhaps not interested
at all, and to retain attention it is often
necessary to entertain rather than to determine what is happening in the
music. To say this is not to condemn
Mr. Balliett, merely to recognise the
limitations within which he works.
Under the circumstances it is almost
inevitable he should use many phrases
that, reminiscent of the emotional impressionism of early jazz Writing, have
greater picturesqueness than meaning.
Does "cowlike" really tell us anything
about the trumpet sounds of Harold
Baker or Joe Smith? Or "goatlike" about
Sonny Roflins? What does "florid" mean
when applied to a musician's attack?
How do "crablike" runs differ from
"grapeshot" ones? It is difficult to believe the peanut-butter sandwiches on
page 79 tells us much about Art Farmer,
or to understand how Hawkins was once
a "cool museum" of tenor playing. Does
"port and velvet" say anything about the
marvellous accomplishment of Gil
Evans's orchestral technique? In what
sense are Monk's compositions "somewhat calculated"? How can a trombonists tone be "tufted"? And in the cause
of picturesqueness Mr. Balliett has devised some rather curious verbs: "to
blat", "to thunk", "to whump." However, this style of writing does occasionally achieve suprising accuracy. The
description of Brubeck's playing as
"melodramatic" is as felicitous as that
of Kenton's "alarming, froglike volume"
is irresistible. "A clandestine series of
chords that only implied the melody" is
good too. Now and again Mr. Balliett
sums up a situation with admirable
conciseness, as when he says "the final
collapse of the big-band era in the late
'forties left a permanent hole in jazz".
Nonetheless many statements in this
book are extremely debatable. It was
not just "a few years ago" that Monk,
Lewis, George Russell and Gil Evans
"began using the greater technical facilities first opened up by bebop". They
were all active in that direction in the
'forties—except Evans who never had
anything to do with bop. Throughout
the development of jazz the 'schism' between improvisation and composition
has never been so great as Mr. Balliett
implies in his introduction. In the best
jazz they go inextricably together. To
those familiar with his best work with
Ellington, Rex Stewart is in no sense
a "diminishment" of Cootie Williams
but a strong, many-sided solo personality on his own. The alleged influence of gospel music on Thelonious
Monk is dubious, and it is untrue that
Riverside's Monk's Music Ip revealed a
"heretofore largely undemonstrated talent as an arranger". That talent was
made obvious years ago by recordings
like Criss Cross and Carolina Moon.
(However Mr. Balliett does appreciate
the value of Monk's consistency.) There
are a few historical slips such as placing Stitt with the hard boppers and
the still underrated Roy Haynes with
younger drummers like Elvin Jones and
Louis Hayes. And misconceptions too.
Polytonality and atonality are not in
essence "classical devices" as Mr. Balliett appears to think. They have not'
yet been used extensively in jazz but
that does not make them the exclusive
property of straight musicians. A reference to "classical techniques pasted
onto standard jazz contents" is particularly irritating. How on earth does one
paste together techniques that are concerned with the organization of musical
material—structures in pitch and time?
This is typical of what happens when
non-musicians write on music.
But despite it all Mr. Balliett writes
with considerable understanding of
such diverse musicians as Pee Wee
Russell, Garner and Mingus. He has
a good introductory piece on the blues
and a completely accurate assessment
of Kenton—placing him in relation to
the lesser pre-war white swing bands
and not with the modern movement at
all—that is brief yet leaves nothing
more to be said. He makes some
original miscellaneous points such as
the one that "although jazz began as
a vocal music it has produced only a
handful of full-fledged jazz singers".
Particularly excellent is a piece on
Sidney Catlett that ought to find its way
into a better anthology than this. Indeed he writes with considerable
analytical skill on drummers, Btakey
and Philly Joe Jones among them, but
has limited sympathy with the more
modern ones. I believe he is the first to
point out the hints of later innovations
that can be detected in Kenny Clarke's
drumming on Bechet's 1940 One O'clock
Jump session. His views on Roach are
quite unacceptable.
At the end of the book it remains
difficult to say just where Mr. Balliett
stands. Although he is sympathetic to
some of them, he is quite censorious
of the moderns and seems most
strongly attached to the pre-war swing
men. He certainly writes of some of
the latter—Catlett and Ben Webster,
for example—with notable insight. Yet
he is capable of an unpleasantly stick
near-debunking of Louis Armstrong. It
would be interesting to know from Mr.
Balliett in which records does Louis
display "a tendency to fluff one out of
every five notes". One also wonders
how well acquainted with Armstrong's
records he is when, despite pieces like
Wild man blues, Mr. Balliett tells us
he has never been an "energetic improvisor". And is the accompaniment
provided by Hines, Singleton et al on
records like Basin Street blues really
a "tea-dance background"? At times Mr.
Balliett's values seem very uncertain.
Max Harrison
JAZZ by Leonard Feather.
Petersen Publishing Co., Los
Angeles, Calif.
This is an accurate history of the development of jazz from the thirties until
the present. Published in magazine
form with many excellent photographs
and few advertisements, it is well
worth the 50< tab.
The strongest feature of the writing is
the historical detail. Leonard gives a
good resume of the state of affairs that
affected the economy of the jazz musician at the beginning of the war, catalogues the arrival of new musicians,
groups, composers and music, and follows the principal developments of
style. There are many accounts of the
specific circumstances leading to the
formation of various groups that produced important music, such as the
Eckstine band and the Miles Davis
Capitol recording group.
Leonard's conception of cause and effect in the music world is okay until
he begins to deal with the creative
process itself. His idea that new forms
were invented because jazz had stagnated is a common mistake: whenever
a few years pass without the appearance of a new hero, up goes the cry
that jazz is stagnating. Even when
there is no great leader around, musicians who are able to work creatively
find some way to sustain their interest in music. The act of creating
is always the most satisfying part of it,
and whatever form holds the musician's
interest at the moment is valid. When
a musician of exceptional originality
invents some especially beautiful
music, other musicians are excited by
the possibilities presented and their
imaginations are in turn stimulated.
The emergence of the exceptional
artist is a rare and wonderful phenomenon, but it is a mistake to think
that the work done by less spectacular
musicians leads to stagnation and
decay.
When "the market for jazz is good it
becomes easier for both the creative
and the mechanical worker to sustain
themselves; when business is bad only
the creative worker has any reason for
continuing to play. All the economic
and social factors that Leonard mentions certainly have their effect on him,
but they do not determine what sounds
good to him.
Several fragmentary interviews With
jazz players are sprinkled through the
THE
ART
OF
THE ART OF JAZZ
Essays on the Nature
and Development of Jazz
Edited by MARTIN T. WILLIAMS
A collection of the best writing on
the subject of jazz ranging from
Ragtime to Bop, through Dixieland
and the Blues. These significant
articles cover such jazz greats as
Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday,
Sidney Bechet, and Bessie Smith.
"Scarcely a dull beat to a page
and only the kind of critical dissonances that provoke thinking."— L a n g s t o n H u g h e s
$5.00
At all booksforos
O X F O R D UNIVERSITY PRESS
text as illustrations of various points
of view. In the Miies Davis interview
I notice that where Leonard asks a
general question, "How did the evolution into the cool era begin?", Miles
gives a specific personal answer, "I
always wanted to play with a light
sound, because I could think better
when I played that way", when Leonard
asks a loaded question, "Would you
say he |Tristano] was one of the few
•white musicians who had harmonic
originality?", Miles avoids the trap
("Yes, he did . . ." not, yes, he was.)
Lednard is a better interviewer when
he asks simple questions that can be
answered simply. When he begins probing for musical values the lack of
clarity in his questioning indicates that
he isn't sure what it is he's trying to
find out. Fortunately even poor questions often give the people he is interviewing the chance to mention something of interest, and the dialogues in
this book between Leonard and Mulligan, Miles, Brubeck and Previn are
worth reading.
Albert Isaacs, the art director of this
volume, is to be congratulated on the
general good quality of the photographs. There are over a hundred in
all, including many historically interesting band photos, some really excellent
portraits of individual soloists and
some charming informal shots. In a
double page spread with Miles, Allen
Eager and Kai Winding, a youthful
Charlie Parker is caught with an expression in his eyes that is as direct
and moving as the sound of his saxophone, a beautiful picture. The photo
credits are lumped together in the
front of the book, but I have a hunch
this one is from the good work done
by Herman Leonard in the late forties.
Bill Crow
DOWN BEAT JAZZ RECORD
REVIEWS, Vol. 3. Maher
Publications 1958.
During 1958 the Down Beat reviewing
team plowed its way through 442 new
records in addition to reissue material.
The new records in themselves constitute more than twelve days' continuous
listening time, and when one remembers that each disc needs to be heard
several times and sometimes compared
with earlier issues, the task accomplished assumes truly formidable proportions.
But before suggesting anyone spends
a dollar on this book, one must ask
how well the team fulfills its task. It
would be absurd to expect a reviewer
to have the same taste and predilections as oneself but he should have a
coherent scale of musical values that
are evident in his work. What kind of
standards do the Down Beat reviewers
have?
First of all, they are insufficiently
cirtical. The average rating all these
discs received was 3.3 stars—and 3
stars is supposed to indicate a record
as being good. I don't believe the bulk
of that 442 records, were better than
good. They may have been with regard
to competence of performance but not
in musical value, not in making an
original contribution to jazz. When one
looks at the star ratings, it at once
becomes hard to tell what standards
are in operation. Thus Harry Belafonte's
dreadful "blues singing" is awarded
3V2 stars—as many as Rushing and
Broonzy. But then Down Beat isn't very
strong on blues anyway. In the whole
year only five important blues issues
(two Broonzy, one Rushing, one Brownie
McGhee and one Sonny Terry/McGhee)
were covered. European visitors like
Albert McCarthy and Yannick Bruynoghe have written of the fine blues
singers who can be heard in Chicago
today, and companies like Chess Records are still recording many contemporary singers, yet relying on Down
Beat one might conclude this vital
aspect of jazz had ceased to exist. Instead a record by the effete Herb Ellis
is given 5 stars and recommended as
"the whole story" of the blues. Many
mediocre items receive surprisingly
high ratings, for example undistinguished collections by Manny Albam
and Buddy de Franco have 5 stars
apiece. Against this the unique Henderson band reunion on Jazztone gets
4 stars and Bud Powell's "Blues in the
Closet" set a mere 2. It seems reasonable to conclude that slick competence
is the quality most likely to win approval, but then the clumsy, insensitive
"New Orleans jazz" of Ken Colyer and
Turk Murphy is awarded 3 and 4 stars
respectively. Do the reviewers concerned know any of the American Music
Ips? It seems unlikely.
The impression of confused values is
heightened by some of the extraordinary opinions expressed in these
pages. On page 54, without any apparent satirical intent, Leonard Feather
states that de Franco has done as
much for the clarinet as Parker for the
alto! A Donald Byrd review speaks of
the "Gillespie-Navarro-Davis tradition."
His early death may explain, though not
excuse, ignorance of Navarro's work, but
a reviewer really ought to know that
Dizzy and Miles stand for very different
things in trumpet playing. The Seven
Up bottle gimmickry of Lateef's
"Sounds of Yusef" gets 3 stars, and
those interested in George Lewis' debt
to Artie Shaw (!) should consult page
151.
Only Martin Williams' reviews are worth
reading all the way through and he has
interesting ideas on Julian Adderley
(pp. 10-11), Coltrane (p. 93), Billie
Holiday (p. 100), Hank Jones (p. 113)
and Willie The Lion (p. 188). In the
main, however, there is little attempt at
analysis, and the essential features of
some records are ignored. For example,
the chief point about the Monk/Mulligan Riverside was that, through extreme contrast, it illustrated the very
different approaches of these two important musicians. This is not mentioned. Langston Hughes's poetry readings to music by Henry Allen, Dickenson et al receive 4 stars, but the reviewer seems unaware there is no essential fusion between words and music
here. The extreme incongruity of teaming Pee Wee Russell with Jimmy Giuffre on "The Sound of Jazz" Ip goes
unremarked, as does the artificiality of
Johnny Richards' use of African
rhythms in "The Rites of Diabolo."
The description of Jackie McLean and
John Jenkins as "two latter-day birdsin-the-hand" and a reference to Condon's "China Shop Bulls" suggest Bill
Russo was justified in complaining jazz
writers cannot always resist a cute
phrase. On page 40 Ornette Coleman's
lines are called "attractively linear."
One might as well talk of dry dust
or wet water.
A selection of the usual cliches is
here too. That Coleman review contains the usual one about Monk's limitations: ". . . the frustration of not
being capable of attaining the heights
yearned for so desperately" and so on.
It is surely significant that none of
those who speak of Monk in this way
has never pointed to a specific passage
in one of his records and told us what
notes Monk would have liked to play
had he been able. One of the Powell
reviews mentions the legendary maturity of Bud's work with Cootie Williams
in 1944. Since Leonard Feather wrote
in Inside Be-Bop ten years ago that
Cootie's Hit sessions featured the
pianist "playing almost the same bop
style he features today," nobody seems
to have bothered to listen to the
"Echoes of Harlem" album. The fact
is that Powell plays a surprisingly
advanced bop solo in Floogie Boo, but
the rest of his work gives scant indication of his later development except in
his touch.
If going through this compilation does
not often enlighten one about the records, it does inspire a number of
random thoughts . . . on American
writers' gullibility in accepting the
ridiculous "folk" pretenses of the Giuffre group . . . on past history like
Barney Bigard's assertion that he
wrote Mood Indigo and sold it outright
for twenty-five dollars . . . and on the
decline of jazz. Too many Ips are based
on show scores, and jazz did not need
that kind of prop at one time. There
are too many attempts to resurrect past
achievements: "Ronnie Gilbert Sings
Bessie Smith," "Billy May Plays Lunceford," "Dinah Washington Sings Bessie
Smith," "Buddy de Franco Plays Goodman," "La Vern Baker Sings Bessie
Smith," "De Franco Plays Artie Shaw."
Whatever his limitations, Artie Shaw, in
his own day, was too concerned in being himself to want to re-create anyone
else.
Max Harrison
JAZZ IN PRINT
by
NAT
HENTOFF
T h i r t y years ago, Roger
P r y o r Dodge's f i r s t
a r t i c l e , Negro J a z z , appeared i n the London
Dancing Times. " E v e r y t h i n g
I had read," Dodge r e c a l l s , "was on the
Gershwin-Whiteman bandwagon. Even though b e t t e r
a r t i c l e s of t h a t time
have s i n c e come to l i g h t
such as E r n e s t Ansermet's
and Abbe N i l e s ' foreword
to Handy's B l u e s ,
t o g e t h e r with h i s a r t i c l e
i n the 1929 e d i t i o n of the
Encyclopedia B r i t t a n i c a ,
I b e l i e v e mine was the
f i r s t which d i d not accept
Whiteman, Gershwin and
Grofe or any of the other
w r i t e r s composing i n
extended forms. Both Don
Knowlton and N i l e s looked
to the Gershwin-Grofe
team to take j a z z out of
i t s 'monotonous f o x t r o t
dance-time...' I a c t u a l l y
wrote my a r t i c l e i n
1925, soon a f t e r the
famous Whiteman c o n c e r t ,
but found no p u b l i s h e r
i n t e r e s t e d . My c o n t e n t i o n
a l l along has been t h a t
j a z z can c r y s t a l l i z e i n t o
composition throu&h
n o t a t i o n but t h a t those
who d i d i t were on the
wrong t r a c k from the
Gershwin-Grofe e f f o r t s i n
Rhapsody i n Blue up to the
work of B i l l Russo."
A p r e s s r e l e a s e from P h i l
Shea, Boston Jazz Fest i v a l : "Throughout the
h i s t o r y of j a z z t h e r e have
been two b a s i c o r i e n t a t i o n s to t h i s music, the
hard and the c o o l . The
hard s c h o o l i s c h a r a c t e r i z e d by a more v i g o r o u s ,
p e r c u s s i v e animated s t y l e
of p l a y i n g . The c o o l
s c h o o l i s more s u b t l e ,
r e l a x e d and muted. Among
saxophone p l a y e r s to be
heard at the f e s t i v a l , f o r
example, Coleman Hawkins
can be d e s c r i b e d as
d e f i n i t e l y of the hard
s c h o o l . Bud Freeman i s
c o o l . Trumpet p l a y e r s l i k e
D i z z y G i l l e s p i e , Roy
E l d r i d g e and Buck C l a y t o n
a l l are hard s c h o o l
p l a y e r s . One top performer
at the f e s t i v a l i s a
h y b r i d , a p i a n i s t who
can be d e s c r i b e d as
belonging to n e i t h e r
s c h o o l . That, of course,
i s Dave Brubeck..."
Lukesoft?
Time, the weekly e d i t o r i a l
page, reviewed the f o u r t h
annual R a n d a l l ' s I s l a n d
(New York) Jazz F e s t i v a l
From the i n s i d e r e p o r t :
"Most of the groups t h a t
f o l l o w e d showed t h e i r adherence to Brubeck s t y l e .
Among the b e s t : M i l e s
D a v i s ' Sextet...Ramsey
Lewis Trio...Modern Jazz
Quartet."
Was Brubeck adherent
Art Blakey a l s o on the
program?
Time was c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y responsible for a
m a l i c i o u s r e p o r t on the
death of B o r i s V i a n . The
a t t a c k was a c t u a l l y made
on the f i l m , " J ' i r a i
c r a c h e r sur vos tombes,"
based on h i s book t h a t ,
while l a r g e l y a parody,
was h a r d l y sympathetic to
c e r t a i n American mores.
A f t e r q u o t i n g the approving French c r i t i c s and
the v i o l e n t l y d i s a p p r o v i n g
P a r i s "Herald Tribune"
man ("absurd and
scandalously inaccurate...
a s i l l y , sour t r a v e s t y of
American l i f e " ) , p a r o c h i a l
Time ended:"Where Author
V i a n ' s views might l i e between these two extremes,
no one w i l l know. He
attended a preview of
"The S p i t t e r , " took one
look at h i s f a n t a s t i c
Trenton, and slumped i n
h i s seat. At 39, B o r i s
V i a n was dead of a h e a r t
attack."
The obvious i m p l i c a t i o n
i s t h a t V i a n was f a t a l l y
shocked at h i s own u n f a i r ness to America, and
succumbed to a j u s t
American God's anger. V i a n
had had a s e r i o u s heart
ailment f o r some time
b e f o r e h i s death, and s i x
months b e f o r e he d i e d ,
was t o l d h i s time
was s h o r t .
Duke E l l i n g t o n to AP
columnist Bob Thomas: " I f
I d i d n ' t keep working a l l
the time, I'd miss out
on some g r e a t e s t e x p e r i ences. L i k e h a v i n g
Iowa farmers d r i v e 200
m i l e s to hear you i n
January. Or going back to
England and having people
i n every town show you
programs from 1933, when
you l a s t p l a y e d t h e r e .
That s o r t of t h i n g you
can't buy. I t ' s what keeps
you working and keeps
you young."
The J u l y J a z z - S t a t i s t i c s
(American r e p r e s e n t a t i v e
E r n i e Edwards, J r . , 718
Keenan Avenue, Los Angeles
22, C a l i f o r n i a ) has
d i s c o g r a p h i e s of Jesse
Powell and some Hampton
b i g bands.
Prez by Leonard Feather i n
the September Playboy
i n d i c a t e s Feather d i d h i s
own r e s e a r c h , and the
a r t i c l e i s worth l o o k i n g
up f o r the new
mat e r i a l Feather has found
and other s e c t i o n s of
L e s t e r ' s biography that
he's c l a r i f i e d .
Head-by-line of the year.
From The Boston H e r a l d :
"55,000 at Newport
F e s t i v a l Found i t One of
Greatest." By-line —
"By
George T. Wein (Wein i s
v i c e - p r e s i d e n t and
d i r e c t o r of the Newport
Jazz F e s t i v a l . ) " Who
needs a press agent when
you can be a r e p o r t e r ?
Skip Fero, 426 B r i a r c l i f f e
Avenue, U t i c a , New York,
i s w r i t i n g a biography
of Theodore " F a t s "
Navarro. He would a p p r e c i ate any i n f o r m a t i o n .
Jazz, a small M a r s e i l l e
j a z z magazine, has a p i e c e
on Ray Bryant. Down Beat
hasn't y e t , nor, a l a s ,
have we.
L o u e l l a Parsons, our
f a v o r i t e source on music
i n Los Angeles, w r i t e s :
"Jazz music which o r i g i n ated i n A f r i c a w i l l be
used f o r sound i n
'Tarzan and the
Ape,'
MGM's new s e r i e s , a c c o r d ing to produces A l
Z i m b a l i s t . 'This i s the
i d e a of Shorty Rogers,*
A l t o l d me, 'and Shorty
who i s an expert, i s u s i n g
bongo drums, trumpets and
other A f r i c a n musical
instruments i n p l a c e of
normal sound. We have
a l a r g e o r c h e s t r a and we
b e l i e v e we have a
novelty.*"
What does a trumpet look
l i k e ? Made out of tusks?
Sixteen p a r t i a l scholarships at The School
of Jazz i n Lenox were
r i d i n g on a promised (and
oft-announced) Newport
s c h o l a r s h i p grant. Admitt e d l y , o n l y $1,000 had
been f i r m l y promised with
another $1,000 regarded
as n e a r l y c e r t a i n .
A f t e r the s c h o o l had
s t a r t e d , Newport f a i l e d
to come through on the
whole amount.
More paperback d i s c o graphies from Debut
Records, Box 46, Brande,
Denmark. In the new batch
are L o u i s Armstrong,
V o l . 1 (1923-31, V o l . 2
(1932-46), Vol.3
(1947-58), C h a r l i e
Parker
(complete).
A London Observer r e p o r t e r
i n Moscow w r i t e s that
W i l l i s Conover's "Music
U.S.A." i s not jammed i n
Moscow, and that "not one
person here...does not
l i s t e n to i t . . . Yet the
minute the music ends the
j amming r e t u r n s . "
F r a n c i s Newton on B i l l i e
H o l i d a y i n the New S t a t e s man: "... She was the
P u c c i n i heroine among
b l u e s - s i n g e r s , or r a t h e r
among j a z z - s i n g e r s , f o r
though she sang a cabaret
v e r s i o n of the blues
incomparably, her n a t u r a l
idiom was the pop song.
Her unique achievement was
to have t w i s t e d t h i s i n t o
a genuine e x p r e s s i o n of
the major p a s s i o n by means
of a t o t a l d i s r e g a r d of
i t s sugary tunes, or
indeed of any tune other
than her own few d e l i c a t e l y c r y i n g elongated
notes, phrased l i k e
B e s s i e Smith or L o u i s
Armstrong i n s a c k - c l o t h ,
sung i n a t h i n , g r i t t y ,
haunting v o i c e whose
n a t u r a l mood was an unr e s i g n e d and voluptuous
welcome f o r the p a i n s of
l o v e . . . S u f f e r i n g was
her p r o f e s s i o n , but she
d i d not accept i t . "
Father Norman O'Connor i n
The Boston Globe: "We
( B i l l i e H o l i d a y and
C h a r l i e Bourgeois and
O'Connor) stopped at the
r e s i d e n c e where I l i v e at
to have c o f f e e . One of
the young l a d i e s who
served the c o f f e e was
from I r e l a n d . B i l l i e spoke
to her, got a k i c k out of
the I r i s h brogue, and
wanted to know i f there
were any more where
she came from. There was
another one i n the
k i t c h e n , and we a l l moved
there where the l a d y who
was n o t o r i o u s f o r 'Strange
F r u i t ' and n a r c o t i c s went
through a program of
I r i s h melodies...There she
was, s t a n d i n g i n a
k i t c h e n , moving the hand
so g e n t l y as she always
d i d when she sang...The
g i r l s never stopped t a l k ing about the i n c i d e n t ,
and n e i t h e r d i d B i l l i e .
She was there f o r f o r t y f i v e minutes."
A good s t o r y , but
n o t o r i o u s f o r Strange
Fruit?
In Jazz 3: a q u a r t e r l y of
American music, t h e r e ' s
an e x c e l l e n t a n a l y t i c a l
study of L e s t e r Young by
Louis G o t t l i e b ; a beautif u l l y written descript i o n of the f u n e r a l of a
New Orleans jazzman
by Sam Charters ; and an
i n t e r e s t i n g p i e c e by
L a r r y A u s t i n on Jazz i n
Higher Education.
Ken
Hume has A L e t t e r from Los
Angeles, p a r t s of which
make one wonder a g a i n why
Down Beat's r e p o r t e r t h e r e
doesn't expand h i s
newsgathering r o u t e .
P u b l i c a t i o n date of Sam
C h a r t e r s ' The Country
Blues (Rinehart) i s
November 5. Ross R u s s e l l
w r i t i n g a novel involved
i n part with j a z z .
And Ernest Borneman has a
new non-jazz n o v e l ,
Tomorrow Is Now ( N e v i l l e
Spearman, London).
C h r i s A. S t r a c h w i t z
(10 Roble Road, B e r k e l e y
5, C a l i f o r n i a ) i s working
on a guide t o contemporary
blues s i n g e r s — one that
would evaluate "the s t y l e ,
f e e l i n g , and m u s i c a l
q u a l i t y o f the v a r i o u s
a r t i s t s . " He w i l l begin
p u b l i s h i n g the guide
s e r i a l l y i n Coda (John
N o r r i s , P.O. Box 87,
S t a t i o n J , Toronto 6,
O n t a r i o , Canada). He hopes
e v e n t u a l l y to compile
complete b i o g r a p h i c a l and
d i s c o g r a p h i c a l data on
the s i n g e r s he i n c l u d e s .
He'd l i k e any suggestions
and h e l p he can g e t .
Also involved i n f i n d i n g
more i n f o r m a t i o n about
blues i s the i n v a l u a b l e
Record Research (131
Hart S t r e e t , B r o o k l y n 6,
N. Y.) Compiler of
t h e i r new Blues Research
p r o j e c t i s Anthony Rotante
(2059 McGraw Avenue,
Bronx 62, New York) and
co-ordinator i s
Paul S h e a t s l e y (130 West
12th S t r e e t , New York
11, N. Y.) They've begun
i n Recorded Americana,
B u l l e t i n 9 ( d i s t r i b u t e d by
Record Research) w i t h
the Texas and M i s s i s s i p p i
scene. "We a r e v e r y
anxious," they note, "to
get i n touch w i t h some
c o l l e c t o r o r group o f
c o l l e c t o r s f a m i l i a r with
Chicago l a b e l s and a l s o
for Philadelphia labels...
A l l our f r i e n d s from
abroad a r e welcome t o
join in."
A note from I . L. Jacobs
of P.O. Box 374, N a t i o n a l
C i t y , C a l i f o r n i a : "Has
M a r s h a l l Stearns o r one o f
h i s co-workers t r i e d t o
c o l l e c t copies of reverseimage t h r e e minutes
Panoram 'soundies' from
the l a t e '30s and e a r l y
40s. Now growing s c a r c e ,
my a n c i e n t d i s t r i b u t o r ' s
catalog l i s t s r e e l s
by Duke, F a t s W a l l e r , Red
Allen, e t c .
Thefirstbook to tell the story of
The Country
Blues
by Samuel B. Charters
T h e early singers of the blues, men
like Blind Lemon Jefferson and
Big B i l l Broonzy, were artists who
took the field cries and work songs
of the American Negro and developed them into a unique musical
form, music which has been called
the only purely native American folk
Here is the story of the early blues
singers told by an authority in the
field. A jazz musician himself, M r .
Charters brings great factual knowledge and deep sensitivity to his story
of the lives of the early blues singers
and the music they made.
Illustrated.
$4.95 at all booksellers
RINEHART & CO., INC., 232 MADISON AVE., NEW YORK 16
Coming December 3 at $5.95, but available by special arrangement to /ass Review
readers who order before publication ot
only $4.95.
Order Nowarid save $1.00!
Jazz
Edited by
Nat Hentoff and
Albert McCarthy
TVTat Hentoff, writer on jazz and
' editor of The Jazz Review, is
also an editor of two of the foremost
books in the field, T h e J a z z M a k e r s
and H e a r M e T a l k i n " T o Y a . H i s
co-editor, Albert McCarthy is a British jazz critic and editor of Jazz
Monthly. These two authorities in the
field have now created a book with
an entirely new approach to jazz.
J A Z Z is the only book of its kind to
reflect the revolution which has been
taking place in jazz criticism.
Here are essays by twelve of the
world's foremost jazz critics and
scholars, which, taken together, present the whole field in its modern
perspective.
USE THIS COUPON TO PLACE YOUR PRE-PUBLICATION ORDER
THE J A Z Z REVIEW,
P.O. Box 128, Village Station, N. Y. 14, N. Y.
NAME..
Enclosed is (check/money order) in the
amount of t
Please send me
ADDRESS
copies of J A Z Z at the special prepublication price of $4.95, plus 1S< postage
and handling, per copy. Offer expires December 3, 1959.
CITY
ZONE
STATE..
JAZZ
B U L L E T I N
NEW YORK NEWS, compiled
from r e p o r t s by Frank
Driggs, Dan Morgenstern
and others
Trumpeter HAROLD "SHORTY"
BAKER has l e f t Duke
E l l i n g t o n , and i s r e h e a r s ing a q u a r t e t which i n cludes b a s s i s t Francesco
Skeete. Trombonist BENNY
MORTON i n the Radio C i t y
Music H a l l Symphony Orc h e s t r a . Trumpeter LOUIS
BACON i s back i n a c t i o n
p l a y i n g at the Vat i n
P a l i s a d e s , New J e r s e y with
C l i f f Jackson weekends,
and s i t t i n g i n at Ryans,
a l s o g i v i n g out with Armstrong-styled vocals.
A l l e n Eager i s at the
Duane, u p s t a i r s . B a s s i s t
AHMAD ABDUL-MALIK i s with
p i a n i s t Oscar Nord, a t
B i l l i n g s l e y s on Park Ave.
LUCKY ROBERTS, legendary
Harlem p i a n i s t , i n good
health again, i s p l a y i n g
weekly f o r p a t i e n t s i n a
Veteran's H o s p i t a l .
Organist MARLOWE MORRIS at
the "L" Bar, Broadway &
148th S t r e e t . PAUL QUINICHETTE p l a y e d a week-end
at Henry's, i n Brooklyn,
with p i a n i s t Joe Knight
and young drummer Vince
Hickey, a former student
of Baby Dodds. P i a n i s t
WILLIE GANT, who l e d some
f i n e bands i n the 20s, a t
Ceruttis.
The band f o r YVES MONTAND's hugely s u c c e s s f u l
one-man show produced by
Norman Granz i n c l u d e d
JIMMY GUIFFRE, trombonist
BILLY BYERS, b a s s i s t AL
HALL, drummer CHARLIE
PERSIP and g u i t a r i s t JIM
HALL. HARRY "SWEETS" EDISON booked f o r seven weeks
at B i r d l a n d , opening opp o s i t e Mercer E l l i n g t o n ' s
b i g band...veteran trumpOrganist RAM RAMIREZ i s
s t i l l at Branker's at
155th S t r e e t and St.
Nicholas Place.
A new j a z z c l u b i s the
Sportsman's Lounge on
West 50th S t r e e t , where
BILLY GRAHAM'S q u a r t e t
p l a y e d d u r i n g August,
f o l l o w e d by Lawrence
'88' Keyes i n September.
The ADDERLEY BROTHERS'
new rhythm s e c t i o n i s
BOBBY TIMMONS from the
Messengers ( r e p l a c e d by
Walter Davis J r . ) , SAM
JONES from Monks group
and LOUIS HAYES from
Horace S i l v e r ' s q u a r t e t
( r e p l a c e d by D e t r o i t e r
Roy Brooks).
The group
recorded i n mid-October
i n San F r a n c i s c o f o r
Riverside. Riverside also
recorded g u i t a r i s t WES
MONTGOMERY (The Jazz
Review, September) with
h i s own t r i o (Melvyn
Rhyne, organ; P a u l
Parker, drums) i n New
York i n e a r l y October.
The f i n a l personnel of
QUINCY JONES* show-band
w i l l be Benny B a i l e y ,
C l a r k T e r r y , Lenny Johnson and F l o y d S t a n d i f e r ,
trumpets ; Melba L i s t o n ,
Quentin Jackson, Jimmy
C l e v e l a n d and Ake P e r s son, trombones ; P o r t e r
K i l b e r t , P h i l Woods,
Jerome Richardson, Budd
Johnson and Sahib S h i hab, reeds ; J u l i u s Watkins, french horn; P a t t i
Bowen, p i a n o ; George
•Buddy' C a t l e t t , b a s s ;
Kenny B u r r e l l , g u i t a r ;
Joe H a r r i s , Drums.
S t a n d i f e r and Miss L i s t o n
w i l l a l s o w r i t e f o r the
band.
NAT PIERCE i s r e h e a r s i n g
a b i g band f o r h i s December B i r d l a n d opening;
sidemen i n c l u d e Paul
Q u i n i c h e t t e , Gene Q u i l l ,
Eddie B e r t , Frank Rehak,
Burt C o l l i n s and s i n g e r
Big M i l l e r .
Nat i s a l s o
w r i t i n g f o r WOODY HERMAN'S new road-band and
f o r the Broadway Revue
which w i l l open i n November with Lonnie
Sattin.
Trombonist-arranger Eddie
Durham has been working
r e g u l a r l y i n the F r e e p o r t ,
Long I s l a n d area f o r the
past two y e a r s . He has
b r o t h e r Roosevelt Durham
on piano, a l t o i s t Clarence
Gee Royster and e i t h e r
S l i c k Jones or Herbie
Cowans on drums. ED LEWIS'
g i g band i s back working
s o c i a l c l u b dates i n
Harlem and on the I s l a n d ,
with musicians P a u l Webster, Hilton Jefferson,
R u s s e l l Bowles.
MID-WEST ROUND-UP
Blues s i n g i n g g u i t a r i s t
SCRAPPER BLACKWELL gave
a concert i n I n d i a n a p o l i s
d u r i n g September. Tromb o n i s t DAVE BAKER and
g u i t a r i s t WES MONTGOMERY
gave a j o i n t concert f o r
the I n d i a n a p o l i s j a z z c l u b
on October 4th.
Chicago: Vee Jay's f i r s t
j a z z l p f e a t u r e s PAUL
CHAMBERS. Others s i g n e d by
Vee Jay i n c l u d e LEE MORGAN
and WAYNE SHORTER (but not
Art Blakey as r e p o r t e d
here l a s t month; he signed
with Blue Note.) Argo
recorded M i n n e a p o l i s
p i a n i s t HERB PILHOFER i n
September, and Chess r e corded MUDDY WATERS s i n g ing B i g B i l l Broonzy
songs. Strand r e c o r d e d
young g i r l s i n g e r PAT
THOMAS backed up by a
group that i n c l u d e d Les
Spann and C h a r l i e P e r s i p .
Kansas C i t y : Composera r r a n g e r and reed man
TOMMY DOUGLAS w i t h drummer
Edythe Jackson and
o r g a n i s t - v o c a l i s t Bobby
Moore r e t u r n e d to K.C.
a f t e r a summer p l a y i n g i n
I n t e r n a t i o n a l F a l l s , Minnesota.
Ex-Lunceford tenor s t a r
JOE THOMAS i s g i g g i n g
weekends and d i r e c t i n g a
f u n e r a l home d u r i n g the
day. JOHN JACKSON has
switched from a l t o t o
tenor and works i n a packing house d u r i n g the week.
Jazz Dance
Ulamao Dance
ROGER PRYOR DODGE
Any attempt at exhaustive description of an unfamiliar art is more
likely to confuse with a welter of vivid and high sounding terms,
than to convey the essence of the thing itself: such is the danger
in writing on the jazz and mambo Dance. Although I certainly
believe that we would profit by a detailed recording of both, it is
not to my purpose to present one here. Rather, I will discuss what
is already familiar and point out some of the problems that arise
when a dance of "doing" is transformed into a dance of "presentation." I hope to show that the idea of a musical parallel to them
is fallacious and breaks down on analysis.
The arts of performance, specifically dance and music—we dance,
we sing—are certainly authentic arts, but by their very nature
they transport their "doers" beyond any intelligent consideration
of what they are doing while they are doing it. Self-criticism by
an artist is objective examination of his finished work; it does not
take place simultaneously with creation. Thus any real self-criticism of these arts must come through a later observance of the
performance as reproduced by screen or phonograph. Even when
the folk-popular dance reaches its highest pitch of excellence selfcriticism at the time of performance does not become a part
of the art.
In its early state the dance of "doing" became a major art; but
one which loses all sustaining power and satisfaction when uprooted from its native soil. Music, because it was more easily
transplanted, did not deteriorate under these conditions, but was
able to develop and sustain itself without, like the dance, having
to rely on expedients introduced by the individual performer.
Music that serves the dance prepares itself during its improvisational phase for the coming of the composer, who will first work
in the spirit of improvisation and finally go beyond it into extended forms. Until music's inevitable decline it was this individual performer-composer who charged its material and forms
with greater and greater significance, but in the beginning he
did not institute any new ways, new forms or formats.
AI Minns demonstrating the Lindy
The dance as a "doing" lacks composition, except in so far as a few
over-all formations are resorted to
for the sake of convenience; nor is
composition the dancer's concern.
But there comes a time when, under
the eyes of spectators, the dancer
is made conscious of the effect he is
producing on others, and his "do
ing" is no longer for himself
alone. If he leaves the dance-floor
for a platform and exhibits his steps
to an audience he is faced with the
problem of how to present his scant
material. As his previous concern
with the act of "doing" has switched
to a new concern of presentation
he must have recourse to a purely
optional framework to hold the interest of his audience. Within this
framework he sets his dance, he
composes; but throughout, his practices must be optional rattier than,
as in jazz music, proceeding through
the means of a conventional framework. Unlike the musicians, he finds
that he had no material in a state
ready for presentation. This explains
much of what I shall speak of in
connection with the presentation
problems of the Lindy Hop.
I take it as a premise that art
springs from the folk subconscious.
Without trying to explain my reasons
for holding this theory of the folk
origin of art, I should like to add
that I find folk expression alone far
more significant than any individual
expression that fails to take advantage of folk material. How much
of this basic material any artist may
choose to retain in his own work is
a matter of personal taste; but observation has taught me that only
in the very late stages of an art is
it advisable for him to rely on purely
optional means of his own. Folk expression seems to be the result of
a built-in mechanism, like a bird's
nest-building instinct, which provides a powerful and unself-conscious driving force for the creation
of strong and healthy art forms.
Once the drive has spent itself these
forms become static—they no longer
develop. Anything further becomes
what I call the use of personal options which needs a rare esthetic
acumen to guide and preserve i t —
at least in today's world.
Let me say that when a sophisticated art deriving from the folk
aspires to a major position it will
only be successful if the folk art
from which it sprang had itself already developed far beyond a sim-
ple back-country expression. Otherwise we would merely have a new
folk flavor shot into the arm of academic art, not a genuine new art
springing from the folk.
Let us look at some differences between music and dance. The folk
subconsciously developed the song
form, which with the greatest ease
encompassed any time length from
eight to sixteen bars, lasting, in the
blues, for instance, as long as forty
seconds. With the possibility of
variety through different instrumental solo passages and further variety
added by the imagination of the
players in the ensemble, together
with a nod from the leader signaling the last chorus, we have a piece
of music easily four minutes in
length that conveys to the listener
a feeling all of a piece. This entire
procedure can come about with little
thought. In the dance the longest
stretch is a combination of single
steps, which put together, constitute
what, in dance terminology, is called
a "step." None of these steps actually takes more than two bars,
while most of them take only a half
or whole bar. The Charleston, for
example, takes one bar; Boogie
Woogie, two bars; Jig Walk, a bar
and a half. While music is thought
of in tunes, dance is thought of in
steps; and between the two there
is a great disparity in time length.
In performance we expect from both
dance and music a duration of two
to three minutes. A piece of music
easily meets this requirement in
its natural and subconscious development within a conventional
frame, but in the dance, the dancer
himself must substitute an optional
frame in order to fill out the time.
A dancer normally uses only the
steps at his disposal, and in any
order. His dance never gives the onlooker the same feeling of the progress he has when listening to a
tune. Our only cue to the approaching end of the dance comes from
the music. This is evident when we
watch any floor full of dancers,
whether they are dancing in couple
or completely apart. Any dance composition, however brief, is the optional invention of either the dancer
or choreographer. But whether optional or not, the choreographer
must eventually intervene. Just as
one sequence of solos and ensembles in a band contributes more
to the feeling of a whole than some
other, so one sequence of steps will
give a greater over-all impact than
some other. While in one instance
we are working with the arrangement of large blocks of integrated
music, in the other we are working
with the arrangement of short steps.
In music, I believe, there is a carrythrough of mood inherent in the
melodic process itself, while in the
dance any prevailing mood derives
not so much from the sequence of
steps; but up to now such movements
expression superimposed on the
material by the dancer. Of course
bodily movement and stance can
vary regardless of what steps are
used, and these enforce the pleasure
we derive from rightly qualified
steps; but up to now such movements
have not crystalized or been codified in any grammar of the dance.
And so I say that a group of "pick
up" musicians with no rehearsal can
give us sessions of music that have
over-all unity, while unrehearsed
dancers can only start dancing with
the music and keep going until the
last note. Very often in the Savoy,
groups of dancers used to circle a
pair who would dance furiously for
only about fifteen seconds, and then
be followed by another pair. It was
terrific dancing—the greatest—but
it gave no feeling of inherent unity;
nor, because of the dancers' very
brevity did one demand this.
This unorganized state is of the
nature of the dance, and this is not
said in disparagement. From the time
a dancer walks onto the dance-floor
he is in a state of exaltation in
which he threads his way through
the throng or remains in one place,
repeating over and over a few steps
in no set sequence until the music
stops. This for him is a complete
experience, both esthetically and
physically—as exhilerating as any
physical exercise: taking a long walk,
skiing or fighting waves on a beach.
A few steps done with little variation will satisfy for a whole evening—and evening after evening.
The remarkable thing about this activity is that its artistic significance
carries to onlookers, and they,
through the power of empathy and
their esthetic sensitivity participate
in the dancer's experience. They are
also conscious of a silhouette in
space, something hardly intuited by
the dancer.
The spectator at a dance-hall can
receive the greatest kick by just
watching the dancers in context of
the whole whirling assemblage,
picking out here and there a couple
for his particular attention. From
his vantage point he may see wonderful things, or he may get only
tantalizing glimpses of something
terrific; but altogether the impact
of the music and the beat of hundreds of feet provide him with a
completely satisfying experience.
The difficulties start when a single
dancer or a single couple is taken
from the crowded floor and exhibited
on a stage where the poor individual or the couple must start
dancing and continue long enough
to satisfy the spectators. As soon as
the dancer is removed from his
dance-floor to a stage the spectator
feels he can demand a kind of
performance he never expected to
witness when he was a by-stander in
the dance-hall. Though the dance
may be precisely the same as it was
on the dance-floor, something is
missing. But with a band, granted it
played in a concert hall as well as
it did in the dance-hall, we would
find that it still had lost none of its
original impact. In fact even on the
far-removed medium of records it
still reveals all of its old dance-hall
glory of invention and playing style:
nothing is missing. The dancer, however, rightly finds that he must
arrange; also he usually feels the
necessity of injecting an over-dose
of showmanship (in fact he is likely
to seem inept if he doesn't).
Whereas the band, without changing
anything in its performance, withstands the change to the other side
of the foot-lights (or to a record),
the dancer has to cater (and I believe he should) to what is expected
of a "presentation." Here the optional dictates of a choreographer
must come in, and with the steps
and talent at hand, create a presentation which, while showing off
the dancers' abilities, projects some
feeling of over-all unity. This is the
constant preoccupation of dance
production and of the choreographer
who uses strictly dance material.
(There is also a choreography of
miscellaneous material not necessarily dance in nature, which is another matter.)
After presenting these theories, let
me mention the long line of steps
derived from Negro dancing. None
is over two bars long. More than
two bars are called combinations.
Out of what may be hundreds of
steps a few, for one reason or another, have been taken up, though
they may not necessarily merit the
special esteem they enjoy. The
greatest step was the Charleston; it
is truly generic in character. When
done to a Charleston rhythm in the
music it could be infinitely varied
without losing any of the quality that
we sense to be Charleston. Its step
was but one bar long. Next came the
Black Bottom, which consisted of a
small combination lasting two bars
in which the dancer played up to
the name by spanking his bottom a
couple of times, although the dance
is said to derive from wading in deep
mud at low tide. Then there is
Truckin' which is nothing more than
a walking dance in which the dancer
bends and straightens his legs as
he walks. Combined with the Suzy-Q
it makes, when done by comedian
Pigmeat Markam, an extremely fascinating dance. All of these steps
had music written in their name and
were featured in musicals.
Although the Charleston was done
as a couple dance in ball-rooms, it
wasn't until the Lindy Hop came
along that we arrive at what has become a permanent national dance.
With its many highly integrated steps
— a necessity for a "led" couple
dancing with break-away—we have a
popular dance on which many variants have been grafted, such as the
style deviation of the jitterbugs, the
detached attitude conjured up by
bop music in the Apple Jack, or the
Rock 'n' Roll dance that has been
sweeping the country.
The Lindy Hop is the only dance
which has both cross-rhythms and
more than two time values. Besides
the steps which are synchronized
with the musical phrases in the
Lindy, there are steps which cross
the rhythm of the music in the same
fashion as polyrhythms in music.
The extra time value, besides that
of the commonly used slow and
quick steps, is found when the dancers do a double-quick two-step in
place of one slow step. We get crossrhythms in the Foxtrot and the Peabody as a result of the breaking of
the tight hold music had on dance
during the nineteenth century. Then
all steps were tied down by the tyranny of the musical first beat. When
ragtime came along with eighth-note
and sixteenth-note beats between
the two main quarter-note beats (2/4
time), dancing in common time was
liberated. Interjected notes tend to
mitigate the power of the strong first
down beat thereby acquiring a near
equal stress between these down
beats, a procedure that led to the
character of popular 4/4 time. With
syncopation and cross-rhythms in
the music of ragtime, the main beat
became definitely 4/4 time. Dancers
started to sway from side to side in
a jog trot (two-to-a-bar) in the rag
dances that preceded the Foxtrot. All
feeling for bar lines had vanished.
This led eventually into the One Step
and later into the Peabody. For a
short while the Foxtrot was a matter
of four steps to the bar in the quick
stepping fashion of a fox, but this
gave way to dancing single steps
consisting of two-to-a-bar together
with two-steps, as in its present
state. But the previous step-and-music identity was completely broken
down, opening the way to crossrhythms, of steps taking one and a
half bars. This freedom was never
attained by Cuban dancing, but was
characteristic of the Tango through
its own course of development.
This complete breakdown of adherance to the first musical beat made
possible the introduction of crossrhythms in the Lindy. Whereas many
of the cross-rhythms possible in the
Foxtrot are due to the aimless meandering of the dancers, in the Lindy
the presence of cross-rhythms was
a matter of precise steps, either definitely cross-rhythmic or definitely
mono-rhythmic. A polyrhythmic character between music and dance is
clearly felt when the 3-count {IV2
bars) step is being used while with
the use of the 4-count (2 bars) step
the dance is coordinated with the
musical phrases.
And so with this rhythmic freedom
and the aforementioned doublequick two-step which, by the way,
also came about in the Mambo and
was called the Cha, Cha, Cha, we arrive at a highly developed folk-popular dance. With a variety of steps in
couple position and a short space
during the break-away for individual
invention, the Lindy becomes a most
complete dance, incorporating in itself any number of other steps.
These steps were adaptable to the
widest range of tempos. Of course
the Lindy Hop, like any other great
dance, possessed its own highly significant style and stance. Style and
stance went beyond the mere deportment of any great exhibition dancers,
whether Spanish (gypsy or classical)
or our own ballroom performers.
Although all great Lindy dancers
possess a style and distinction of
their own, within this style there is
complete freedom of movement,
opening the way to great bodily invention.
Out of the Lindy Hop or in conjunction with it came what the dancers
called "the routine." These routines
were a matter of changing from the
couple position as led by the male
to a team position (such as is done
on the stage). Steps done in this position naturally had to be set and
learned. Each couple made up its
own routine or used that of others.
The dance allowed for the use of the
entire step gamut of their repertory.
With the introduction of the new material the dance took on an entirely
different character from the couple
dance of the Lindy Hop: the "swing-
ing" feeling of the continual breakaway and return was broken up. The
routine was like the development of
a symphony or one of the alternate
strains used by a jazz band. Interpolation give a special lift to the
original theme when return is made
to it. The same kind of lift is given
the dance when the couples return
from the routine to the right-turn
break-away. Using the routine was
the first sign in the Lindy Hop of
creating a counter-section of a different character, something to set
off the original Lindy Hop to greater
advantage.
The Big Apple was another set dance,
done in circular formation, in which
the dancers either followed a given
procedure or responded to the commands of a caller. It was a sort of
square-dance in the round.
Another couple dance which had a
short life was the Shag, a 3-count
dance (IV2 bars). A description
makes it sound like a lot of hopping,
but when it was danced well it became actually a smooth dance which
at the same time retained the strong
beat of solid hopping, the smoothness being achieved by the gentle
swaying bodies above the quick foot
work.
Sadly enough, out of this whole
dance mania, this sweating it out
night after night all over the country,
plus the presence on the scene of
innumerable great dancers, all contributing their own style and personal invention, none of it developed
into the professional stage-dance.
Stage dancing with its pocket-full of
musical comedy steps remained unenriched by the Lindy Hop. While
teams explored the possibilities of
the Waltz, Polka, Tango, Rumba,
Mambo and what not, nobody explored this really great dance for
what it could contribute to the stage.
Under the aegis of Herbert White the
best dancers of the Savoy Ballroom
were formed into Whitey's Lindy Hoppers. They danced in movie houses,
in motion pictures, and in Broadway
musicals; they were featured at the
New York World's Fair. But nothing
really came of all this and the Lindy
Hop was never integrated into show
business.
While the great Lindy Hoppers stood
on the side lines, a new breed of
dancer, fortified with ballet and modern dance training, took over show
business and danced to some form
of jazz music. The new dance has
none of the style, refined or not, of
the Negro dance. With its few movements derived from jazz it became a
choreographer's idea of what dancers
with ballet or modern training should
do to jazz music. All of tv, movie and
musicals are loaded with this type
of dance. The days of the good old
dance-man with his pocket-full of
steps now seems a golden era of the
stage dance.
The jazz dance, other than tap, has
had very few eminent representatives on the stage. The best and
among the earliest were the Berry
Brothers—Ananias, James and Warren. The whole act was built around
the extraordinary ability of Ananias
Berry. Aside from his technical proficiency his strut itself was marvelous—and it was quite a feat to
build a composition around the few
possible ways of strutting. But The
Berry Brothers did, and their dance,
Papa De Da Da, was the greatest of
its kind. Another famous dancer was
Earl "Snake Hips" Tucker, the originator of the snake hips dance, a
title inadequate to describe the wonderful thing Earl Tucker made of it.
His was a loose-jointed body which
together with his great ability as a
dancer made this dance with its
short pantomime sequence impossible to imitate. Very often a dancer
will capitalize on a special gift,
which, incorporated into his artistic
creations, make his dancing unique.
It is always fatal for even the greatest
dancers to attempt what they are
not cut out to do—that is, physically
fit to perform.
There were many other teams who
depended on either excellent comedy
or excellent dancing (tap or otherwise) to show themselves off, but
except for the great comedy acts, no
dancers ever possessed the greatness of the Berry Brothers or Snake
Hips Tucker.
Tap dancing, a category within jazz,
has a complete academy and many
talented dancers, who, with nowhere
to turn and lacking the imagination
to foster Negro non-tap dancing,
found themselves sucked into the
tap convention curriculum. As an accessory to singing, clowning, or even
other types of dancing, tap gives a
definite punctuation to the rhythm,
but although its academy is thorough
and complete it tends to undermine
a dancer's inquisitiveness because
of the fund of material it presents
him with. It is precise and fun to do,
but its charge is always that of
astounding virtuosity, which, once
seen, continually diminishes in interest and bears little repetition.
Without the personality of a Bill
Robinson, accepted tap procedure
has become pretty dull.
THE
STORY
OF
SMI
BOOKS
IN
AMERICA
1935-55
SHELDON MEYER
This is a tale with a few high spots
and far too many lows. Jazz, during
much of its sixty-odd years of existence, has been hampered by immaturity and neglect on the part of
both critics and book publishers. If
book publishers are johny-come-latelies to the field, so are critical
standards which make jazz writing
significant. Jazz is now enjoying a
boom, but it was not ever thus—
and it is my purpose to show how
jazz has fared at publishers hands.
The 1920's may now be called "The
Jazz Age," but as far as public appreciation goes, the label is a misnomer. The public thought of jazz
in terms of Paul Whiteman, George
Gershwin, and Ferde Grofe. True
jazz could be found mostly only
on the "race" labels of record companies or in clubs deep in the Negro
districts of big cities, and as such,
was the property of the unsophisticated plus a few initiates. Under
these condtions, it is not surprising
that there was virtually no jazz
criticism.
Conditions through much of the
1930's were no more propitious for
jazz. The Depression had hit publishes hard, and no one was willing
to risk anything on so chancy a
field as jazz. In the mid-thirties,
help came from an unexpected
source—Europe. In the course of
two years, three books originally
written in French appeared on the
American scene. Charles Delaunay's
Hot Discography (the first jazz reference book) brought together valuable information about the early jazz
sessions. The other two books were
by Robert Goffin and Hughes Panassie. It was Panassie's book, Hot Jazz,
the prototype of the jazz writer of the
1930's. He and his kind were not critics, but sometimes gushing enthusiasts. Panassie did, however, posses
an ability to express himself, a
fresh enthusiasm for the music,
and, occasionally, a sensitive ear
and a perceptive view of the subject.
Because he took jazz seriously, he
represented an important advance.
Hot Jazz was written partly out of
enthusiasm for white jazz of the
1920's. Later, when he had heard
more of the Negro jazz of the same
period, Panassie fell for it and in
The Real Jazz, in 1940, he condemned music he had previously
praised. His latest book, Guide to
Jazz (1956), carries the view to absurdity as he castigates the entire
bop movement for "not playing
jazz." It is a sad commentary on
the jazz writing of the 1930's to
call this wildly opinionated man an
important pioneer critic, but probably only Robert Goffin and Otis
Ferguson were of equal importance
in the pre-war period. All three were
a superior sort of jazz fan, and it
is to their credit that they aroused
interest in the serious study of jazz.
Jazz books have remained under
the cloud of the Panassie approach
for the better part of two decades.
This type of criticism reached its
depths in the 1940's in the battles
between the "moldy figs" and the
"progressives," with both camps
spending most of their tirpe sniping
at the other and madly boosting
their own enthusiasms. One important jazz history declared that
Louis Armstrong's work degenrated
badly after the early Hot Five recordings, while another history discounted New Orleans and treated
Lennie Tristano as the apex of jazz's
development.
It is little wonder that publishers
shied away from undertaking jazz
books when there was such bitter
feuding within the field itself. Until
some level of objectivity and reasonable critical standards could be
established, most publishers preferred to stay away from the subject.
Still, a few had taken a chance and
some were rewarded with works
which made important contributions
to the study of jazz.
The first of these important jazz
books appeared in 1939. It was
Jazzmen, and its principal authors
were Frederic Ramsey and Charles
Edward Smith. Jazzmen attempted to
set down in print the record of jazz's
beginnings in New Orleans and its
spread north in the 1920's. Ramsey
and Smith sought out important
early figures, and much of the story
is told in the words of these men.
Part of the book suffered from the
Panassie faults—gushy writing, too
great boosting of Dixieland and New
Orleans jazz, formlessness.
The importance of Jazzmen cannot
be overestimated, though. It was the
first substantial work of research
in the field. As researchers, its
authors brought professionalism into
jazz writing, and most of the worthwhile jazz books which followed
have been extensions of their approach. Rudi Blesh's Shining Trumpets (1946) investigated the New
Orleans background and the blues
tradition in the same well-documented fashion but suffered from
Blesh's violent prejudices for the
traditionalist position and against
most jazz after 1928.
At the other end of the spectrum was
Barry Ulanov's A History of Jazz in
America (1952) which recorded
much valuable information about
the swing and bop movements but
made some foolish statements
about New Orleans jazz. Of the general histories, the best is probably
Marshall Stearns' The Story of Jazz
(1956), which covers jazz's roots and
development, sometimes in too
peremptory fashion but is, a decided
improvement on previous jazz histories in that it does not take sides
for or against any particular school.
Several more limited studies have
followed Jazzmen's approach. Rudi
Blesh and Harriet Janis in They All
Played Ragtime thoroughly researched the long-neglected ragtime movement. Equally important was Alan
Lomax's job of editing the Library
of Congress Jelly Roll Morton recordings and interviews. These, published as Mister Jelly Roll (1949),
form the most revealing portrait of
a jazz artist found between book
covers. Finally, rising above all other
books in the Jazzmen tradition, is
Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff's Hear
Me Talkin' To Ya (1955), which
pieced together in intelligent fashion
statements and remarks by jazz figures forming a consecutive record
of jazz's development.
Indirectly, Jazzmen had one bad influence. It focused attention on the
"jazz epic"—that is, the off-told
story of how jazz originated in
Africa, got its formal start in New
Orleans and progressed up to the
Miles Davis Capitol records of 1949.
No study of jazz has seemed complete without much of this detailed
recital. If every study of American
life had to include a resume of
American history, no reader would
stand for such belaboring of the
obvious. Jazz writers, however, do
not seem to believe their readers
capable grasping all this without another force-feeding session, and it
is therefore little wonder that jazz
has not been taken seriously in
many circles.
It is a sad fact that jazz had often
been its own worst enemy as far as
publication is concerned: bad writing, poor critical standards, factionalism—all have hurt. Perhaps the
most damaging blow to jazz's drive
for acceptability has been the link
with vice which jazz has had in the
public eye. There have always been
lurid elements in jazz, particularly
in the early days when so much of
it was played in "tenderloin" districts. Jazz has outgrown most of
this, yet countless people still relate
it to liquor, drugs, and prostitution,
and look upon jazz musicians as
rather disreputable characters, and
like or dislike them and their music
for the wrong reasons. Publishers
frequently insist on emphasizing the
sensational aspects of books about
jazz as was done with Billie Holiday's life story, Lady Sings the Blues
(1955), an important social and jazz
document all but ruined by its lurid
handling. Often, the writers themselves contribute to this false impression. In Mezz Mezzrow's biography Really The Blues, author
Bernard Wolfe constructs Mezzrow
as a great "character"—always in
and out of jail, on or off the "stuff,"
but lovable and indestructible.
No one can deny that a number of
jazz musicians have been involved
in vice and dissipation, and this
must be taken into Account when
portraying the individual jazzman.
It should be kept in its place, how-
ever, and not be allowed to interfere with the study of jazz as an art.
Book publishers differ little from
other purveyors of public taste. They
are attracted to subjects because
they are talked about even if they
know Iittle about them. A few publishers are able to recognize good
jazz books and others know where
to go for advice but, over the years,
many publishers simply have been
had. They have allowed writers to
convince them to bring out books
for which there is not only no need,
but which are distinctly second-rate.
The result has been a flood of jazz
histories, reference books, and anthologies. The anthologies have had
an especially evil effect, preserving
for posterity magazine pieces of the
1930's and the 1940's which should
have been buried. Such palming off
of the mediocre cannot help but
hinder jazz's attempt to get a
serious hearing.
The remarkable thing, of course, is
that despite the cavalier treatment
which the publisher (with his jazzy
titles and avant-garde jackets) and
the writer have given the jazz public, good jazz books have appeared
and have sold reasonably well. I
say "reasonably well" because, with
two exceptions, the most popular
jazz books have, at most, sold fifteen
thousand copies. Only two jazz
books have sold more, both of
them publishing "naturals." Leonard
Feather's Encyclopedia of Jazz
(1955) filled a void in jazz publishing as a reference work to which
the neophyte could turn for a quick
knowledge of jazz and which the
more serious student could have on
hand to verify certain points. Orrin
Keepnews and Bill Grauer's Pictorial
History of Jazz (1955) sold well,
despite the poor quality of the illustrations, because big picture
books usually find a good market.
It should surprise no one to learn
that jazz books have often had wider
acceptance in Europe than in America. A good American jazz book is
almost assured publication in Europe, and books such as Stearns'
and Ulanov's histories and Hear Me
Talkin' To Ya have appeared or will
appear in half a dozen European
countries. This represents a kind of
reverse lend-lease arrangement, for
significant jazz publishing began in
the 1930's with European writers,
and there have been outstanding examples since—particularly Andre
Hodeir's vastly important attempt to
analyze jazz's structure and significance, Jazz: Its Evolution and
Essence. Now, however, American
writers and readers seem to be
catching up. Today's jazz critics are
able to write effective English, and
some of them have the knowledge
of music theory that made Hodeir's
book unique when it appeared. The
best writers have critical standards
and are able to write without bias
for or against any particular school
of jazz. In addition, there is a growing public in this country for such
writing. The next few years might
see the publication of many significant books on jazz.
I use the word "might" because
there is no guarantee this will happen. More jazz books are being published because the subject itself is
"hot," and unfortunately, there is
the possibility that jazz will be overpublished. Too many second-rate
books, and books covering the same
areas, are being published. Both
publishers and writers should declare a moratorium unless they have
something original to contribute to
the field. There are many topics
which demand attention but have
not yet received it. In some areas,
research will have to be started soon
if material is not to be irretrievably
lost.
There are three general areas which
should prove especially fruitful for
book topics. One is the roots and development of jazz. This includes investigation of the influence which
produced jazz as a distinctive music
form, the social background of the
Negro leading to jazz, and the history of the music forms that make
up jazz—a book, for example, on the
development of the blues. Another
area is the story of jazz's creators.
No one has yet written a satisfactory jazz biography, but the material
is there—colorful, dramatic, humorous, sometimes tragic. Finally, there
is the job of musical analysis which
Andre Hodeir began. This means
moving away from the treatment of
jazz as folk music and applying the
apparatus of serious musical criticism to the subject.
It remains to be seen whether writers and publishers are up to the
task which has been set for them.
Great progress has been made in
the past decade, but there is much
still to be done. Without a good
library, jazz will never attain the
importance it might otherwise have
Phonograph records have preserved
jazz performances for us and will
continue to do so; but only in book
form can jazz find the analysis and
searching criticism which is so
necessary for the development and
serious acceptance of any art. Jazz
deserves the same attention that
other, older arts have had.
RECONSIDERATIONS/Fats Navarro
Double Talk, The Skunk, Boperation,
Lady Bird (alternate take):
Blue Note 1531-32
Sweet Georgia Brown:
Counterpoint 549.
Jumping For Jane, Half-Step
Down Please: Victor 1017.
Dextrose: Savoy 9003.
Boppin a Riff: Savoy 9012.
Move: Dial 212.
During the past few years various
comments on the work of Fats Navarro have seemed to me grossly unfair and inaccurate as estimates of
his style and achievement. I shall
use the records listed above to show
various aspects of his style. They all
seem to me to illustrate his originality and uniqueness.
H. A. Woodfin in The Saturday Review, Don Gold in Down Beat and
Leonard Feather in a booklet called
Jazz published by Pacific Press have
all said something to the effect that
Fats was a man with a great talent
who died before he had a chance to
explore that talent and to develop a
really original style. (Gold's statements may influence newly interested jazz fans along the wrong
paths. Metronome's "deuces" rated
most of the sides in Bird's Koko,
Billie's Bounce, Now's the Time session three stars—remember that
Feather called Ulanov and himself,
two of the "deuces", among the first
to understand modern jazz). But I was
extremely disappointed to read Bill
Crow's review of Fats in The Jazz
Review (December, 1958), since most
of Crow's work has been perceptive.
To quote Crow, "Much of his concept is frankly taken from Dizzy
Gillespie's work of the same period."
Not so, if one listens closely to Fats.
Fats was certainly an individual musician and none of his influences
dominated him. Like Bud Powell he
listened to many sources and incorporated them into his own style. Admittedly Dizzy was an influence but
so was his section partner in his
Andy Kirk days, Howard McGhee,
and Charlie Shavers whose sound
and attack he dug. (Shavers is, I
believe, a distant cousin.)
The McGhee influence on Navarro
can be readily seen in the sides they
cut together for Blue Note, Double
Talk, The Skunk, Boperation. Another
interesting reference for comparison
is the versions of Sweet Georgia
Brown cut by each in 1947; Navarro's on Counterpoint 549, McGhee's on Crown 5004. The overall
effect of McGhee's playing in that
period was much like Dizzy's (his
most important modern influence)
and Roy Eldridge's. He emphasized
a hot legato swing and played with
considerable originality. Though Fats
was a more thinking musician, some
of McGhee's musical vocabulary got
into Fats. One can note it in the
similarity of the Georgia Brown solos;
especially the long descending runs
in the bridge.
In many ways his conception is diametrically opposed to Gillespie's
who, like many swingmen usually
employed a "running the changes"
style of improvisation. The success
of his solos depend upon the emotion and freshness of melodic invention with which he played. Sometimes Gillespie is lazy and plays
stock phrases, though these are usually phrases he invented himself;
much of the work he has done for
Granz has been quite uneven in
quality. Fats, on the other hand, was
much more concerned with form. In
many ways he was a more self-conscious musician than Dizzy is.
Navarro has been accused of "lacking Diz's fire." Most musicians lack
Diz's fire, but this alone does not
make them inferior. They feel differently and express themselves differently. Fats was a real classicist, a
type of classicism represented in the
swing period by men like Benny
Carter, Teddy Wilson and Lester
Young.
Listen to two of his lesser known
but great solos, Half Step Down
Please and Jumping for Jane with
Coleman Hawkins. They are both
short, but they are gems. His tone is
fuller and broader than Diz's, his
phrasing less hurried and more stacatto. The level of melodic invention
on these two sides was high even
for him; there is not a cliche to be
found. He was remarkably concientious in this respect, like a good
housekeeper who pounces on dirt
the minute she sees it. But, he
could make common-property licks
sound like he created them; he
would play a stock blues phrase and
it would come out Fats. One device
he sometimes used to do this was to
delay, and then play the first few
notes of the phrase faster than ordinary. This "spitting notes" technique of his can be heard in the
last few bars of Dextrose with Dexter
Gordon on Savoy. His double-timing
was also remarkable. Most musicians
aren't too concerned about what
they play in a double-time passage;
they use it for surprise or shock and
are preoccupied with when to use
it to the best effect, as a drummer
is concerned with the right time to
drop a bomb. The composition of
the phrase in their double-timing is
of less importance to them, and
many times the passage may be
merely running up and down scales
in key. But Fats maintained the
same high level of invention that he
did on slow blues and ballads where
he had more time to think. A perfect example of this double-time
skill can be heard on the alternate
take of Lady Bird.
No matter what his personal frustrations, his time and technique were
always near-perfect. In one of his
longest solos, Boppin' a Riff, he can
be heard effortlessly building to a
fantastic peak, a double-time passage that otherwise only a trumpet
player of Diz's technique could execute. Incidentally, his short lines on
this passage seem to show a kind of
quizzical sense of humor not usually
attributed to him.
Occasionally Fats could create savagely, as on Move, but the bulk of
even his up tempo work was relaxed
and thoughtful. His lip was as good
as Gillespie's but he used the upper
register more tastefully in the context of his playing.
Finally, if Fats were only a copy of
Diz he couldn't have had the influence he did. He certainly marked
Clifford Brown's long stacatto lines.
His playing also affected two lesser
known but fine trumpet players, Joe
Gordon and Red Rodney—as well as
the early works of Art Farmer. And
Kenny Dorham—listen to his solo
on Royal Roost (Victor) 3046 to hear
how close Dorham's playing was to
Fats'.
It is impossible to say whether Fats
Navarro's work would have evolved
had he lived. But by 1950 his style
was mature, and his contribution to
jazz trumpet playing large.
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